It's all good.
2 years ago
| Notes: 1
Just rescanned, this one’s a bit clearer. Still uncertain how to edit posts on here…
2 years ago
Instead of just doodling, I gave pen art a try today. The picture is heavily based on Starry Night, only the cypress tree was originally drawn intuitively. The rest was based on on a shitty black and white copy of the Van Gogh I printed out at lunch. Sorry if it’s a little pixelated, I blame technology for that.
Please be kind in your judgements, this is my first attempt at this sort of thing…
2 years ago
| Notes: 2
We were eating dinner when we heard a knock at the door. Sylvie squealed and leaped out of her seat; her friend Marthe and Marthe’s Mother Elaine had promised to pay us a visit tonight. Mathilde looked cross but let her answer the door anyway. Sylvie ran out of the kitchen, and we heard the door unlatch from the next room. Her squeals died, and we heard a faint greeting. Sylvie called out, “Papa, two policemen are here for you!”
Mathilde looked at me. “What do they want?” she whispered. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Probably nothing. Put my dinner on the stove so it doesn’t turn cold.” Mathilde’s worried eyes followed me as I walked towards the door. Sylvie brushed past me and retreated back into the kitchen, shy at the sight of the new strangers.
Two men stood outside, clothed in leather trenchcoats. The shorter one stood shivering, clutching at his collar and hat to combat the harsh wind and snow. The other, a seeming giant, stood stoic in spite of the freezing wind.
The shivering one was the first to speak. “Are you Monsieur Girard?”
“Yes.”
“Good, good. May we come in?”
“Of course.”
The giant muttered “Heil Hitler” as he walked in, I automatically returned with the same.
I shut the door. The shorter man rubbed his hands energetically before extending one to me.
“Hello Monsieur Girard, I am Leon Becker. This is my colleague, Friedrich Müller. I’m sorry to impose upon you like this, are you in the middle of something?” His French was perfect, save for a slight accent.
“I was eating dinner, but it’s not important. I can finish it later.”
Becker took off his coat and my hair bristled at the sight of the Swastika on his crisp uniform. “Apologies, we’ll try not to be long. Is there anywhere I can put my hat and coat?”
I sighed before I spoke so my voice would not tremble. “Here, I’ll take them.” I walked over to the coat rack and hung them up, then asked Müller if I should take his coat as well. He furrowed his brow, and Becker apologetically informed me that his colleague did not speak French. Becker repeated the question in German, and Müller simply shook his head. Before I could speak again, Mathilde poked her head in and asked what was going on. “Everything is fine, just keep eating dinner,” I told her. Becker smiled and gave an amicable “Hello” before Mathilde disappeared once more.
Silence weighed heavy on the air for a few moments before I finally asked.
“So, what brings you to my house?”
Becker reached inside his pocket and pulled out a few papers. “Census information, a wonderful pursuit.” His voice was laden with sarcasm. “As it turns out, your previous government had a few holes in their records, so we just need to re-collect some previous information. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience. Is there anywhere we can talk in private?”
“Would my study work?”
“That would be perfect. Where is it?”
I walked the few feet to the next room then held the door open as Becker and Müller entered. Becker sat down in the chair directly opposite my desk, Müller stood next to him as I closed the door and took my seat.
Becker fumbled around in his jacket pockets as I studied Müller more closely. He was even more imposing illuminated by lamp light. Müller could not have been more than twenty-five, yet his gray eyes seemed older than my father’s, a veteran of the Great War. Scars danced across his weathered cheeks, nose, and jaw, his left eyebrow split in two places by old wounds. His short hair exposed that a large piece of his ear was missing. As I scanned him further, I noticed through his folded, cracked hands that two of his fingers were gone. His eyes did not budge from me.
“Pardon me, it seems I’ve lost my pen,” Becker said with a slight chuckle, still searching the pockets of his uniform. “You wouldn’t happen to have one lying around, would you?” He looked up and it took me a moment to respond before I stuttered, “Of course” and handed him the nearest writing utensil. Becker smiled, his eyes darting from me to Müller as he took the pen.
Becker leaned back for a moment before grabbing a book from my desk. “Just need something to write on,” he explained as he leaned back in the chair and began scribbling. For a few moments, the only sound was the scrawl of the pen and my own heartbeat. Becker looked up at me twice, before lowering his book and leaning in to Müller.
“Friedrich, darf ich allein mit Monsieur Girard sein?”
Müller finally broke his stare. “Warum?”
Becker’s smile momentarily dissipated. “Weil ich es gasagt hab’. Du kannst nahe bei der Tür blieben.”
Müller nodded. “Jawohl mein Herr.” He darted out of the room.
Becker’s smile returned the moment the door shut. Nervous, I asked Becker, “What did you say?”
He looked at me, somewhat bemused. “You don’t speak German? Your loss, I suppose.” He laughed to himself and readjusted in his chair, folding his left leg over his right before leaning forward. “I asked Friedrich to leave, I noticed he was making you uncomfortable.” I began to protest, but he cut me off. “Trust me, I understand. I was terrified when I started working with him as well. You’ll have to excuse his demeanor, however, he only recently returned from the Eastern Front before he was stationed here. It seems his time in Stalingrad robbed him of his manners.” He clicked the pen and smiled warmly. “Anyway, on to the fun part.” He looked down. What’s your age?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Occupation?”
“Schoolteacher.”
“Number of members in your family?”
“Three, including myself.”
“Names?”
“Jean-Luc, Mathilde, and Sylvie Girard.”
“And Mathilde is your wife, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So Sylvie was the shy little girl at the door?”
“Yes.”
He wrote without pause. “You have a beautiful young daughter, Monsieur Girard. You are truly blessed.”
“Thank you, Herr Becker.”
I continued to answer his questions, unsure what to think of the man. His cordiality and permanent smile seemed genuine, but at the same time his charm seemed almost calculated. I didn’t know if I should be alarmed.
“Religion?”
I paused.
“Catholic.”
Becker looked up from his writing, then quickly scanned the room. He put down the pen, then reached deep inside one of the inner pockets of his uniform. My stomach choked itself as I saw the outline of a handgun pressed against the front of his jacket. Thoughts flew across my mind as I subtly opened one of the drawers beneath my desk and desperately grasped my letter opener with convulsing hands.
He pulled out a worn strand of beads. A miniature image of Christ in agony dangled from the base.
“Me too,” he said through beaming teeth.
I still shook with excitement, attempting to localize my tremors within my legs so Becker wouldn’t see. But relief soon flooded through me as my mind processed the situation, and I quietly put the letter opener back down.
Becker tucked the rosary back into his jacket. He looked at the door once more for good measure, then back at me. “Now, promise you won’t tell Müller, or anyone else for that matter. National Socialism doesn’t tend to lend a gentle hand to us these days.”
I nodded profusely. “I know what you mean.”
Becker picked up his pen again and wrote the answer, before stopping as abruptly as before.
“Out of curiosity, have you heard of Monsignor Romaine Michel? I’ve heard he lives in this area.”
“Yes. I have known the Monsignor for many years.”
Becker’s face lit up and his eyes glowed. “Really? I’ve heard so much about him, but I’ve never actually met him in person. I’ve been dying to hear him preach ever since I was stationed here. How long have you known him?”
“Almost all my life.”
Becker shot me a skeptical look. “Come now, you must be joking. A man of his position?”
“I’m honest. My father knew him well, and we have been friends for a long time. I volunteer to teach Sunday School for him.”
My response was a look that almost seemed like admiration, I couldn’t tell. Becker simply sat there for a moment, before asking, “Do you know where he’s next going to hold mass? I’ve been trying to find out for a long time, but schedules have always seemed to elude me.”
“He should be preaching this Sunday at the Basilica of Notre Dame, as he does every week.”
Becker’s face blossomed with near-boyish delight. He thanked me multiple times, even leaning over to shake my hand. Once he settled back down, he surveyed the paper again, suddenly looking a little embarrassed.
“Oh, mein Gott. I’m sorry, I went a little off topic there, that was the last question of the census. I’m so sorry for taking up so much of your time.” He put the papers back in his coat, still a little flustered, and returned the book and pen.
I rose up from my chair and shook his hand. “It was no trouble.”
I started to walk towards the door, when Becker gestured for me to wait. “One moment, I just need to go over everything with Müller, to make sure everything on the forms was filled out. Just two more minutes of your time.”
I nodded, and he stepped out into the hallway without shutting the door. I could hear the conversation clearly even if I could not understand it.
I recognized Müller’s voice first.
“Warum ist die Tür geӧffnet?”
“Keine Sorge, er kann nicht Deutsch verstehen.” Becker’s voice sounded much flatter than when I spoke with him, probably just an effect of switching languages.
Müller hushed his voice slightly. “So, was denken Sie?”
“Ich bin fast sicher dass der Katholicwiderstandsgruppe angehӧrt, er war allzu nervӧs zu schuldlos sein. Das, oder er hilft sie irgendwie.”
“Hast du Beweis?”
“Er kennt den Anführer Herr Michel sehr gut.”
“Das ist nicht genüg.”
“Das ist genüg für den Fuhrer und, mehr wichtig, genüg für den Hauptmann. Wir kӧnnen den Mann Morgen exekutieren mit allen den Juden und andere Politischefeinde. Wir sollen nicht langer bleiben.”
“Und seine Familie?”
“Die Frau und das Mӓdchen sollen nach Kaufering oder Dachau gehen, um sicher zu sein. Sie darfen nicht hier blieben, oder wir werden Problemen in der Zukunft haben, wann sie Fragen über den Vater haben.”
There was a slight shuffling of feet, barely audible from my study.
“Müssen sie wirklich nach Dachau gehen? Sie sind schuldlos.”
“Wir wissen das nicht.”
“Das Mӓdchen ist neun Jahre alt.”
“So?”
“Sie darfen nicht tӧten.”
“Ruhe, und mach was ich sag. Oder mӧchtest du abermals nach Russland gehen?”
There was a long spell of silence until Becker popped backed into my study, grinning as broadly as ever.
“Thank you Monsieur Girard, everything is in order. Apologies for interrupting your meal!” Becker gave me one final vigorous handshake.
“No problem at all,” I replied, still attempting to decipher the words I had just heard, once again unsettled by Becker’s energy.
“We’ll show ourselves out. Have a wonderful day!” Becker called out. A few seconds later, the sound of strong wind, then a slight thud and the house was silent.
I sighed and clutched the sides of my face for God knows how long before I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was only 7:00. I walked back into the kitchen to see Mathilde waiting for me, anxiously tapping her fingers against the dinner table.
“What did they want?” she asked, her dark eyes clouded with worry.
I wearily sat down. “They were just bureaucrats for the new regime. Not Gestapo, I think.”
“You think? How sure are you?”
“I don’t know. Look, I’m sorry, I’m too exhausted to wrap my head around this now.”
“We can’t talk about this later. We need to know if we have to flee now.”
I met her gaze. “We haven’t done anything wrong. Why should we be worried?”
“Because if they’re Gestapo, we might disappear just like the Laurents! Do you want to risk that?”
My throat contracted. “No, and I also don’t want to risk fleeing over nothing either, especially with the risk of being caught. Even if they were Gestapo, how do you know they found anything to use against us? The best thing for us to do is just stay here and pray that they don’t touch us.”
Mathilde looked troubled but didn’t say anything for the longest time. Instead, she pushed herself up and walked towards the bedroom, posture rigid as she tried to keep her composure.
Sitting in my wooden chair, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know if there was anything I could do. Anger over my impotence gave way to desperate reflection as I searched my memory for details that would give me an indication of how to protect my family. But the more I scoured the recent events, the more frustrated I became until I realized that there was no way I could be certain about what my meeting meant. No matter how much I analyzed Becker or Müller with my exhausted mind, there was no way I could know the future until it came crashing down upon me, for better or worse.
I looked down at the table. My dinner was still there, Mathilde had forgotten to keep it warm.
I picked up my spoon again, and ate my meal in silence.
—————————————————————————————————————
Direct German Translation: (I’m figuring out a way to tie it in later)
I recognized Müller’s voice first.
“Why’s the door open?”
“Don’t worry, he doesn’t understand German.” Becker’s voice sounded much flatter than when I spoke with him, probably just an effect of switching languages.
Müller hushed his voice slightly. “So what do you think?”
Becker replied, “I am almost positive that he belongs to the Catholic resistance group, he seemed far too nervous to be innocent. That, or he assists them somehow.”
“Do you have evidence?”
“He knows the leader, Herr Michel, very well.”
“That’s not enough.”
“That’s enough for the Fuhrer and, more important, enough for the Captain. We can execute the man tomorrow with all the Jews and political enemies. We shouldn’t wait any longer.”
“And his family?”
“The woman and the girl should go to Kaufering or Dachau, to be safe. They shouldn’t stay here, or we’ll have problems in the future when they start asking questions about the father.”
There was a slight shuffling of feet, barely audible from my study.
“Must they really go to Dachau? They are innocent.”
“We don’t know that.”
“The girl is nine years old.”
“So?”
“They shouldn’t die.”
“Quiet, and do what I say. Or would you like to go back to Russia?”
There was a long spell of silence until Becker popped backed into my study, grinning as broadly as ever.
“Thank you Monsieur Girard, everything is in order. Apologies for interrupting your meal!” Becker gave me one final vigorous handshake.
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