Post by Joachim von Goethe on Sept 13, 2009 22:12:33 GMT
"Heil Hitler!"
That was the all too familiar cry that had been echoing throughout Paris' streets the past month; from high generals to lowly privates, civilians to Einsatzgruppen, even the overzealous young Gefrieter who had just greeted Joachim on the street with the phrase. The Nazis had captured Paris on the 25th of July, 1940, and now it was exactly a month after that date and Joachim was still in the great city, supervising the German occupiers and conducting anti-Partisan raids. Not that he wasn't happy with that, if anything, he was overjoyed. Most of his buisness was conducted at night, when possible Partisans were most vulnarable and easy to intimidate. The only time he would have anything to do during the day was if an attack happened or he caught a German soldier doing something extremely offensive to the city of Paris, such as looting damaged stores or raping a innocent Frenchwoman. It was an extremely lax job, and he was only armed with his Luger pistol and combat knife, which dangled unthreateningly on his belt.
It was early morning and Paris was still waking up, night guards just being replaced by the day-shifters. The sky rippled with white stratus clouds, stretched thin like cotton against the sky. Joachim stared up at it as he straightened his peaked officer's cap, crisply aligned over his golden-brown locks. His uniform was cleanly pressed and clean, the shoulderboards clearly identifying his rank. A morning shopper shuffled by, holding a paper bag from a grocer that Joachim knew was just down the street. He had become familiar with the city, almost as well as Mittenwald, his Bavarian home nestled in the Alpine mountains. He looked down from the sky as a Wehrmacht truck thundered down the road, in the back a small collection of frightened looking civilians. Jews, von Goethe thought as it rolled away, taking the condemned away with it. The SS was routinely rounding up the Jewish population, pasting Anti-Semetic posters in allyways and storefronts and demanding lists of patrons from places of worship before burning them down. Although brutal, it was a neccescary part of eradicating Anti-German attacks. Of what Joachim had experienced, a large amount of the partisans were Jewish, if that was because of their religin or just because they were being liquidating von Goethe did not know, but he was a man of facts. If it could be proven, Joachim would abide it.
Von Goethe continued towards his destination, a rather large cafe with excellent pastries and beverages. It was a favorite haunt of his and several other German officers, of which he often ate breakfest with and chatted of recent affairs and such. They where a good group, but a few where overly arrogant and one was as dumb as a post, but no one could possibly try as hard as him. Joachim smiled at the thought of the simpleton, who he was amazed was fit for military service, let alone a commission. When he finally arrived at the destination he passed through the tiny outdoors dining area before walking in and seating himself, off in a corner were he would possibly be able to read in peace. There were only about a dozen enlisted men and two officers he didn't know, so he wrote off socializing and waved over a attractive young waitress with a gloved hand. "Bonjour poupée, mai-je obtenir un cappaccino et une tranche de strudel aux pommes à la crème, s'il vous plaît?" He said smiling, deciding to exercize his French. The waitress blushed and hurried off while Joachim slipped off his gloves and cap, setting them both on the checkered tablecloth. The officer opened his bottom tunic pocket and slipped out a small paperback book, written in French and titled "La Rose Fanée" He had bought it at a tiny corner shop to amuse him and test his knowladge of a knew language, and had discovered it a somewhat entertaining romance novel, about a man Renee and his forbidden love Avril.
As the officer read the waitress came back with a tray and set sugar, fresh milk and a small cup of cappiccino. "Votre strudel seront sous peu, monsieur." She said and was about to walk away when Joachim pulled on her apron, nearly sending her crashing to the ground. "Je m'excuse, madamemoiselle. Je me demandais si vous pourriez me dire ce que ce mot est, mon français est un peu rouillé." The Oberleutnant said, holding the book out for her to see the word his finger was jabbing at. "Fantaisistes, monsieur." She murmered before hurrying off once again, leaving Joachim alone with only the hum of clinking silverware and muddled conversation. He picked up a delicate little sugar spoon and shoveled three cubes into his cappiccino and stirring it, making sure it was eavenly distrubuted before taking a small sip off the spoon. Deciding it fit for mass ingestion he began to sip it and read once again, waiting idly for his breakfest to be served.
***TRANSLATIONS***
Hello doll, may I have a cappaccino and a slice of apple strudel with cream, please?
Your strudel will be out in a moment sir.
I'm very sorry, madamemoiselle. Could you tell me what this word is? My French is a bit rusty.
Fanciful, sir.
That was the all too familiar cry that had been echoing throughout Paris' streets the past month; from high generals to lowly privates, civilians to Einsatzgruppen, even the overzealous young Gefrieter who had just greeted Joachim on the street with the phrase. The Nazis had captured Paris on the 25th of July, 1940, and now it was exactly a month after that date and Joachim was still in the great city, supervising the German occupiers and conducting anti-Partisan raids. Not that he wasn't happy with that, if anything, he was overjoyed. Most of his buisness was conducted at night, when possible Partisans were most vulnarable and easy to intimidate. The only time he would have anything to do during the day was if an attack happened or he caught a German soldier doing something extremely offensive to the city of Paris, such as looting damaged stores or raping a innocent Frenchwoman. It was an extremely lax job, and he was only armed with his Luger pistol and combat knife, which dangled unthreateningly on his belt.
It was early morning and Paris was still waking up, night guards just being replaced by the day-shifters. The sky rippled with white stratus clouds, stretched thin like cotton against the sky. Joachim stared up at it as he straightened his peaked officer's cap, crisply aligned over his golden-brown locks. His uniform was cleanly pressed and clean, the shoulderboards clearly identifying his rank. A morning shopper shuffled by, holding a paper bag from a grocer that Joachim knew was just down the street. He had become familiar with the city, almost as well as Mittenwald, his Bavarian home nestled in the Alpine mountains. He looked down from the sky as a Wehrmacht truck thundered down the road, in the back a small collection of frightened looking civilians. Jews, von Goethe thought as it rolled away, taking the condemned away with it. The SS was routinely rounding up the Jewish population, pasting Anti-Semetic posters in allyways and storefronts and demanding lists of patrons from places of worship before burning them down. Although brutal, it was a neccescary part of eradicating Anti-German attacks. Of what Joachim had experienced, a large amount of the partisans were Jewish, if that was because of their religin or just because they were being liquidating von Goethe did not know, but he was a man of facts. If it could be proven, Joachim would abide it.
Von Goethe continued towards his destination, a rather large cafe with excellent pastries and beverages. It was a favorite haunt of his and several other German officers, of which he often ate breakfest with and chatted of recent affairs and such. They where a good group, but a few where overly arrogant and one was as dumb as a post, but no one could possibly try as hard as him. Joachim smiled at the thought of the simpleton, who he was amazed was fit for military service, let alone a commission. When he finally arrived at the destination he passed through the tiny outdoors dining area before walking in and seating himself, off in a corner were he would possibly be able to read in peace. There were only about a dozen enlisted men and two officers he didn't know, so he wrote off socializing and waved over a attractive young waitress with a gloved hand. "Bonjour poupée, mai-je obtenir un cappaccino et une tranche de strudel aux pommes à la crème, s'il vous plaît?" He said smiling, deciding to exercize his French. The waitress blushed and hurried off while Joachim slipped off his gloves and cap, setting them both on the checkered tablecloth. The officer opened his bottom tunic pocket and slipped out a small paperback book, written in French and titled "La Rose Fanée" He had bought it at a tiny corner shop to amuse him and test his knowladge of a knew language, and had discovered it a somewhat entertaining romance novel, about a man Renee and his forbidden love Avril.
As the officer read the waitress came back with a tray and set sugar, fresh milk and a small cup of cappiccino. "Votre strudel seront sous peu, monsieur." She said and was about to walk away when Joachim pulled on her apron, nearly sending her crashing to the ground. "Je m'excuse, madamemoiselle. Je me demandais si vous pourriez me dire ce que ce mot est, mon français est un peu rouillé." The Oberleutnant said, holding the book out for her to see the word his finger was jabbing at. "Fantaisistes, monsieur." She murmered before hurrying off once again, leaving Joachim alone with only the hum of clinking silverware and muddled conversation. He picked up a delicate little sugar spoon and shoveled three cubes into his cappiccino and stirring it, making sure it was eavenly distrubuted before taking a small sip off the spoon. Deciding it fit for mass ingestion he began to sip it and read once again, waiting idly for his breakfest to be served.
***TRANSLATIONS***
Hello doll, may I have a cappaccino and a slice of apple strudel with cream, please?
Your strudel will be out in a moment sir.
I'm very sorry, madamemoiselle. Could you tell me what this word is? My French is a bit rusty.
Fanciful, sir.
