Deutsche in Paris [Erik]

[Julian Rosenthal]

Location: Paris, France
Time: 21:30
Weather: Warm, breezy summer night

Paris, the city of light and pleasure, was holding its breath. The new German military administration treated her as a captured beast, trapping her with lashings of curfews and barred windows of checkpoints. The high command thought Paris dead, and on paper she was. Madame Liberté had bent on her wounded knees to the Reich on the 22nd of June, her sons ordered to lay down their arms and kiss the rings of their new lords. The old Marshal resigned, defeated, the new one little more than a puppet on Hitler’s rapidly expanding hand. Germany had trampled her ancient enemy in a matter of weeks. Contrary to the leaflets boasting cultural superiority and Aryan dominance being passed out by children, dolled up in brown-and-black armbanded uniforms, on the streets of the Fatherland, the ageless flame of the French culture was not so easily snuffed. The Frenchman did not accept honorable, diplomatic defeat, but instead stepped back, melting into the shadows. Most did so only to examine the occupiers, learn from them, and eventually assimilate with grudging acceptance. Others, taking lessons from the gypsies and the Jews, manipulated the system and prostituted themselves to the invaders, forgetting personal dignity in favor of personal game. Some refused reality.

The barkeep at Le Chien Blanc Taverne was in some process of this French metamorphosis, his cocoon a narrow channel between the gleaming liquor rack and worn oaken bar, away from the barroom’s timult. His hands were made busy by a soiled white rag, which alternated from shining tap handles to wiping dirty glasses. Embers from his cigarette danced at their reflection both upon the shelved liquor bottles and his bald head. He had worked at the little Parisian alehouse for fifteen years. It truly was only a basement, crammed under a modern stone apartment building on the 32nd arrondissement, but had been purchased by a third party and turned into a happy little distributary, descended into from the sidewalk by a set of elderly iron stairs. In his years at le taverne it had been nearly monopolized upon by local factory men, drinking all of their pay before they made it home. After the occupation it had changed, a barracks had been set up down the street; the grey-uniformed soldier had chased away the smocked steelworker. A waitress worked weekends with him, a petite brunette with the wondering brown eyes of a schoolgirl. She had been intimidated by the Germans, hugging the bar when they came around and pouring drinks with little eye contact. She had warmed up eventually and was hanging on a table, giggling as a few smashed Nazis instigated her to pour six new shots with high flourish from above her shoulder. The barkeep eyed her and rubbed his chin, shadowed ever since razors had become scarce.

“Zehn von zehn!” Joseph Miekler hooted at the waitress, even as a few golden drops of Brandy spouted from the neck of the bottle and onto the tired wooden tabletop. Julian grinned as she moved on to his glass, a few of her ambrosial locks brushing the collar of his uniform as she leaned.

“Sind Sie zu nett, Joseph.” Julian mused, his voice husky and smooth with smoke. He looked at the waitress, his eyes slightly predatory, and switched to French, erring slightly on cause of alcohol as he did. “Maria, je vous donne ... sept sur dix.”

She giggled obligatorily as he fingered his full shot, making her rounds around the table in similar fashion. The SS-Obersturmfuhrer undressed her with his eyes as she went, encouraged by the pat-on-the-back of alcohol. On nod from the barkeep she filled herself a shot and adjusted a worn gramophone in the corner, its dented brass tube bleating the whole of The Marriage of Figaro. He unbuttoned his wool tunic several more times, opening it down to his belt before undoing the first three facets of his collared service undershirt, the white cotton damp with drunken sweat. July’s haze was drawing perspiration from everyone in the bar and its odor was palpable in the room, mingling with tobacco smoke and cheap steak. With everyone’s glass full, he stood, raised his shot to the ceiling, and put on his best politician voice before toasting.

“Und nun, meine kameraden, ich widme diese das vaterland. Lassen Sie sich von unserem service für die nächsten tausend Jahre angehalten werden, lassen sie uns Herr Hitler Schub in der dicken der Bekämpfung und zurück. Aber lassen sie es bekannt sein, dass alles, was er, die hier ihren Dienst tun, werden sie mein Bruder. Wir wenigen, wir freuen uns, unsere band von Brüdern und Schwestern. Und wenn wir wieder nach Hause zurückkehrt, und zeigen unseren narben, lassen sie diejenigen, die blieben in ihren Betten –“ As he let the words fall out Julian broke out into a wide , whisky grin. SS-Untersturmfuhrer Maxemilian Schell looked at him, cocked his head like a dog, and said with a choke of laughter “Du fauler ficker, sie qouting finchen Shakespeare!” The entire table laughed, half of them too drunk or stupid to understand the reference. “Ja bin ich!” Julian bellowed with a beaming smile before throwing back his glass. He faced the table again, licking his lips and combing his hair with his fingers, the sting of alcohol still wetting his tongue.. “Und ich habe jetzt pinkeln!” They laughed again.

Rosenthal turned from the table, pursing his lips and scanning the barroom idly. The waitress was still fraternizing at the German table. His friends were drinking and merry-making, as they should be. Deutschland was victorious, they had fought well, shown their superiority. The barkeep polished away and gave a quick, eying glance towards Julian as he trundled towards the door, his issue jackboots heavy on the floorboards. The push on his bladder had been growing the entire night, and he was eager to empty it in privacy. Le Taverne lacked adequate bathroom facilities, so he made his way towards the red-painted door, throwing it open and feeling a warm summer breeze on his face.

The temperature was higher outside, but the air was moving and felt nice on Julian’s flushed cheeks. The door opened into a little sub-surface alcove, strewn with loose papers, rubbish, and leaves. He mounted the stairs with heavy-footed energy, the breeze subsiding the loving lull of brandy in his system. Julian was a tall man with a rugby player’s shoulders, his blonde hair loose and Caesarian on his forehead. As he reached the sidewalk he let his eyes drift over the Parisian skyline, the Eiffel Tower just barely visible against a pinpricked background of stars. Notre Dame was to his right, but it was obscured by several marqueed shops with apartment building caps. He was learned enough to appreciate the city, with its thousand year history and culture so thick you could nearly smell it on the local’s clothes, but was also not naïve enough to awe at the French. Germany was superior on the world stage, as history had proven time and time over. He was better, stronger than the average Frenchman. However, they shared a distant bloodline with him, and were not too far gone to be pulled back into the grand Aryan fold. They needed this occupation. They needed it badly.

Julian rounded the corner and stepped into a little back alley behind Le Taverne, covered in the normal back alley scenery; rubbish, brooms, and darkened doorways. A motorcar passed on the street, probably trying to make it home before the 11 P.M. curfew fell. The headlights lit up the alley, Julian’s bulky silhouette outlined and his shadow stretched before him. He walked further in, shying away from the doors and unbuttoning his fly. As he let loose a stream, a tiny pattering hit the pavement and he turned his head sharply, juvenile fears playing on his mind. A cat, dark and tawny, scampered away. Julian snickered with slight annoyance and relief, still urinating as he muttered to the feline “Sie haben Angst vor der hündin , sie Scheisse ...”

A pair of hands pulled him back sharply, his hands jerking and warm fluid spraying onto his trousers.

"Was zur Hölle ... ich piss auf meine Hose ...”

The alcohol dimmed his reaction, and he knew one of his dickhead friends was harassing him, but it had gone too far. He had piss on his pants, for the good lord’s sake.

“Ne pas parler à nouveau, ou vous allez mourir.”

The voice was dark and smooth, like melted chocolate. It was accompanied with a hand around his mouth. Julian’s mind fluttered with fear and disbelief, and he did the first thing he could think of; he bit the hand. He could feel his teeth dig into flesh and hot blood ran onto his tongue. Someone grunted and cursed in French, and another person grabbed Julian and spun him onto the ground. The alley flashed in a blur past his eyes, three dark shapes around him. He flailed his arms with all of the might he could, cursing the drunken fog that impaired him. His leg smashed over a tin garbage can and he prayed someone heard it. Julian heaved onto his knees just as the first of the kicks landed on his midsection. He was unconscious within seconds.

Ten out of Ten!

You're too kind, Joseph.

Maria, I give you...a solid seven.

And now, my comrades, I dedicate this to the fatherland. Let us prevail for the next one thousand years, let Herr Hitler drive us into the fires of hell and back! Let it be known that everyone who serves here will be my brother. We few, we proud, we band of brothers-

You little fuck, you're quoting fucking Shakespeare!

Yes I am!

And now I have to piss!

You little bitch, you scared the shit...

What the hell...I've got piss on my pants...

Do not speak again, or you will die.

[∬: Erik Schneider]

Standing guard along the cobblestone road were stylish street lamps - the kind that perfectly captured the romantic essence of Paris. Sheltered within the raised glass lanterns, incandescent bulbs illuminated an abandoned street below. The steady flow of traffic, both pedestrian and automotive, of the previous day was nowhere in sight. Men and women who had walked its winding path through the French capital cowered within their ramshackle households, fearful of what awaited them in the night. Cafes, restaurants, and theaters were all forced to close at 10:30 p.m. and curfew started at 11:00. By nine, however, the boulevards were practically deserted. French police, firmly under the Gestapo's thumb, patrolled the streets alongside squads of German troops.

Obersturmführer Schneider sat alone in the darkness. Before him, scattered about on a sidewalk cafe table were letters, of varying quality, from his friends and family back home in Germany. The street lamps proved an inadequate source of lighting as the young man strained his eyes to read the faint ink of a letter from his supposed sweetheart of a wife. Its lines contained news of his angelic daughter, whose birth and existence had propelled her father forward in his quest to "cleanse" the world for her. Schneider had been plagued from the likes of paranoia since childhood, but its corrupting grasp only recently began to take hold of him. Schneider had always held suspicions against his wife, as well as most everyone he associated with, but doubts of her fidelity hadn't really surfaced until he arrived in Paris. The site of the French women succumbing to their blond invaders sowed the seeds of doubt in his mind. With their husbands either lost in battle or sent to the camps, the wives of Paris invited the German soldiers into their homes with an almost sickening ease. "Alles was sie mehr zu verkaufen haben, ist ihre Körper," an Unterscharführer had remarked.

With one last draw of the cigarette, Schneider extinguished the ominous red dot by burying it into an ashtray surrounded by an array of glass condiment holders. He tediously organized the mess of paper before him, carefully folding the letters before returning them to their respective pockets among his tunic. Settling back into the firm support of the wrought iron chair, Schneider's gaze shifted upward into the starry night sky. For a brief moment, he was entranced by its beauty. But before long, his thoughts returned to the long trek back to the center of Paris. The military headquarters had been established in a former luxury hotel near the Arc de Triomphe, which now flew the flag of the Third Reich.

Schneider spent most of his time in Paris like his comrades. They were hardly occupiers, but rather soldier-tourists. The French put up little resistance in their own capital and in fact many of the city's residents had already fled south to Vichy France. Under specific orders from Hitler, the conquerors of "mighty" France were to behave like gentlemen. Rape and plunder were out of the question. During the day, German planes droned over the Parisian skies and German troops marched through the City of Light's streets. The Germans bought maps, souvenirs, and postcards mostly to send home to their loved ones. Some officers even brought their family with them. The populace had been firmly defeated - their army, that of a supposed world power, had fallen in only a few short weeks. And with the Germans embedding themselves within the city, the French easily submitted and accepted their Aryan conquerors.

Yet, as a vigilant officer of the Waffen-SS, Schneider decided it prudent not to relax too much. Constantly on edge, partially due paranoia and partially due to his own conscious urging, the Obersturmführer observed the Parisian mob. Those few with the backbone to resist their occupiers, regarded as insurgents and terrorists by the Germans, often met at cafes to relay information, organize, and plan. Schneider spent much of his time in cafes around the city drinking coffee and eating pastries, but most importantly observing their occupants. Daytime Paris offered a stark contrast to its moonlit counterpart. Busy shoppers filled the streets, parents took their children to play in the park, moviegoers crowded into cinemas, and lovers came together in cafes. All of it was revolting to Schneider, whose fervent patriotism was offended by the idea that a population could adapt and accept their invasion. At least the Polish had the gall to resist Hitler's troops even after defeat.

At last, Schneider lifted himself from the comfort of his chair and began heading north towards the center of the city. The cafe had closed thirty minutes ago. He had been its last customer. He strolled along the edge of the road, fueled by caffeine. His fingers began to twitch and edge towards the Luger holstered at his hips as the familiar groan of truck's engine approached from behind. Cocking his head over his shoulder, he watched as the patrol truck rolled down the street filled with six men dressed in German uniform. The truck slowed to a stop beside the SS officer. A moment later, its tailgate was lowered and the six soldiers poured out the back, the sound of their jackboots clashing against the cobblestone echoing down the street. Instinctively assuming it to be an ordinary identification check, Schneider's hand reached into his tunic pocket in search for the tanned leather Soldbuch that would confirm his rank and identity.

As he raised his head to look before him, he saw not six but five Wehrmacht troops. An anxious glance towards the cab of the truck revealed that the sixth figure had vanished. Before he could consider whether he had miscounted or if his eyes had deceived him, a strong arm wrapped itself around his neck and a raspy voice commanded that he remained silent. The thick arm tightened around the Obersturmführer's larynx so that he could barely breathe let alone speak. As he flailed about in desperation, forcefully smacking his limbs against his assailant, another man approached from the front. He smashed his knuckles against the officer's abdomen repeatedly, until he was released and his body fell limp against the ground. Schneider struggled to lift himself onto his knees and elbows, his voice too weak to call for help. The gang of men surrounded him and viciously kicked and punched him into submission. In a futile attempt, Schneider attempted to hold on as long as possible but his vision blurred and his head became heavy. It wasn't long before his body fell against the cobblestone once more, this time bloody, bruised, and unconscious.

Translations:

"Alles, was sie mehr zu verkaufen haben, ist ihre Körper"
- All they have left to sell is their bodies.

[Julian Rosenthal]

There is a moment, just after the human specimen awakes, that said man or woman forgets all. He or she has no scant trace of where they are, what their purpose there is, or even of their own identity. For just a tiny fraction of time, a splinter of a second, they are a bobber adrift in a dark sea, the churning water below and the twisting sky above, both retaining endless secrets and emitting not single answer. It is absolutely terrifying, an utter shock of oblivion that panics you more than any chimera or gremlin ever could. Each member of the species of man’s deepest fear is total emptiness. Pain is temporary, finite. Nothing is forever.

The effect of this phenomenon was multiplied tenfold, starting from a forced unconsciousness. The brain was tired, battered, washed with alcohol and smeared with bruised pride. His eyes were first enveloped by the black abyss of his own mind. Nothing was there. No lights flashed, no noises rang out. It slowly evolved to a dirty, opaque greyness of coming consciousness, a dull pain radiating throughout his disembodied being. It brightened and solidified, becoming furious, bright, like a terrible celestial being. And then it climaxed, the light unbearable, the pain sharp and punching. At the very last minute he could stand the psycho-horror, his eyes flipped upon. His body convulsed, startled by the awakening, shaking whatever he was sitting in. His boots jerked, hobnails scratching across a stone floor. He dropped his chin against his chest, feeling the rough wool of his military tunic against the translucent shadow of his stubble. He breathed heavily, trying to situate himself to the pain.

The room was absolutely black, just like his subconscious. His eyes could not penetrate as his straining ears could not puncture the silence. His breathing was the only sound in the room. His breathing…and possibly…was that another’s gasp!? Possibly two others in the room? Three? His mind exploded into a furious cacophony of fear and calculations, the conditions of his state and the environment around him were laid out like equations in his mind.

Julian was restrained to a seat of some sort. The creak when he fidgeted lead him to believe it was wooden and freestanding, but the back of the chair was tied to something else, possibly another seat. His hands and feet were bound to what he supposed were limbs of the chair, and he could feel the rough, heavy scratchiness of maritime rope on his wrists and ankles. He had no idea of the dimensions of the room; it was too dark to tell. He tried to splay his legs out to hit a wall or some other obstruction for the purpose of mental mapping, but the bindings held fast. He was sweating, but cool air lingered on his breath and moisture flirted with his nervous pores. A basement?

Julian had to try to reach anyone in the room. There was no possible way for him to escape by himself, and he could seek no foul that his captors would do unto him more than if he stayed silent. He gathered his courage and spoke out, mustering a strong if not exasperated call.

“Hallo?”

The SS-Obersturmfuher jumped as the flinty click of a striking lighter snapped across the room. He turned his head sharply, looking as life-giving sparks skittered around, bringing light in their jumping tails. Embers hopped and jumped in a thousand shades of yellow, red, and orange, erupting from a brilliant central flame, springing from an engraved metal zippo. A man was seated at a table, his face illuminated by his flaming lighter, becoming a terrible Prometheus in the dark. His cigarette was burning. He looked at Julian with eyes dark as the Seine as his lighter extinguished, he and the table slowly fading back into the abyss. The room was silent and dark again. Smoke curled and wrapped in the oblivion, the only thing discernible to Julian’s frightened eyes. Tobacco rubbed at Julian’s nostrils, mingling with mildew and dampness. He breathed heavily, staring at the spot where the horrible man had been seen. He cringed as a voice breathed out, scratchy, deep, and evil. Smoke issued from an unseen mouth, curling and melding with the word.

“Bonsoir...”