Annette Boissieu

Sometime in November, 1943

Makeshift Prison, Paris, France

---

It’d been a blustery October evening, with a sky as clear as a shot glass. Paris had still been reeling from the collapse of our forces in the north some months ago, leaving France to choke under the German boot. I still remembered the utter despair and confusion my parents had expressed when they learned of what had happened.

“We lasted four years against those bastards!” my dad had exclaimed, “We didn’t even get to four months!”

We were by no means rich, but we managed to survive somewhat comfortably through the occupation relative to other Parisians. Our meals were barebones, our clothes grew worn and weathered, and money was in short supply, but we still had a bed to sleep in and food to fill our stomachs.

Until a few days after my sixteenth birthday.

I still remembered waking up to my parents talking to someone at the front door. Confused, I had slinked down the stairs to see what was going on. Whoever they were talking to, I couldn’t see. The door was only opened a bit and my dad blocked whatever else the person on the other side might see. My mom stood beside him, worriedly clutching her hands to her chest.

Before I could ask who it was, she hurriedly gestured for me to go back upstairs. So I complied.

Five minutes later, I heard footsteps and the door closing. And then silence. I glanced out the window to the street, not knowing what was going on, and saw both my parents walking away with a soldier escorting them.

My mom glanced back at me. The soldier turned around, trying to see what she was looking at. I ducked under the windowsill to avoid being spotted. Cold eyes grazed the second floor of our home, mouth contorted into a sneer. A scar crossed the bridge of a crooked nose.

That was the last time I’d ever see my parents.

It felt like a knife had embedded itself in my chest, barbed and only twisting deeper with every passing day. On some days, I didn’t feel anything. On others, I wanted to shut myself in my room and scream at the walls.

So why is that I couldn’t remember my parents’ faces and only the soldier’s?

I sat huddled in the edge of the makeshift cell, clothed only in my undershirt and pants. Everything else had been confiscated, leaving my arms exposed to the cold.

I desperately tried remembering the faces of mom and dad. Did he have a crooked nose or a straight one? Did she have dimples or not? I just couldn’t remember.

The only thing I could recall was the soldier. The fucking soldier.

For the first time in a while, I felt a tear well up in my eye. Then another. I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead to my knees and trying to stem the tide. It was useless. I don’t know how long I sat there, silently crying. It might’ve been days for all I knew. Time was impossible to tell without a clock or any semblance of sunlight.

“Annette?” the voice nearly made me jump out of my skin. My eyes scanned the dark corners of the cell, looking for the source.

And then I saw him.

“Erhardt!?”

“The one and only,” the man tiredly responded. He was splayed out on the ground in another corner, neatly hidden by darkness. He seemed to have been out cold until recently.

The man sluggishly moved out of the dark, sitting in the light from the hallway where I could see him. While Erhardt had looked disheveled before, it had never reached the point of filth.

His white shirt was missing several buttons, with the sleeves rolled up and torn in several spots. His hair looked as greasy as a frying pan, obviously not having seen a shower in days. Dirt and sweat stained skin and cloth alike, dark bags under his eyes, one even turning purple.

“So this is where you ended up?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even after that little breakdown. I thanked god that the lighting wasn’t strong enough to reveal the puffy redness of my nose and eyes.

The man grimaced, nodding, “Got found by some German soldiers. Was outgunned and caught off-guard, so they managed to take me in. Then they…”

I stared at him as he trailed off, his dullened eyes further glazing over. I prompted him after a moment, “And they… what?”

Erhardt jolted from his stupor, eyes snapping to me with a primal fear in them before subsiding.

“They tortured me. Didn’t stop for anything except to let me recover for a bit so I wouldn’t die. I’d give you the specifics but I don’t want to have to deal with vomit on the cell floor,” the man explained, his voice deadpan. It was such a far cry from the person I’d seen just a few seconds ago I had to pause.

“And, believe it or not, Fabian joined the fascist fucks,” he grimaced.

I stared at him, “Fabian? Fabian Heinsohn?”

“Yes.”

“The one who supposedly died during the Gestapo raid?”

“One and the same. Turns out the fucker had a hidden psychotic side and blamed me for some trauma I didn’t even know about and used that to make the torture extra effective. I thought I died a few times, too. Had no option but to crack.”

I paused, putting two and two together, “Wait. You’re the one who gave up the location of the base?”

“…Yes,” Erhardt’s eyes darkened once more. His voice cracked as he responded.

I couldn’t stop myself from lunging at him in blind rage.

“Tons of people fucking died!” I yelled in his face, clutching at the collar. He didn’t give a response.

So I punched him once. Then twice. Then thrice. I didn’t get a single word from him the entire time despite my shouting. He didn’t even fight back. Erhardt simply laid there, taking it all without even a noise.

Eventually my punches gave way to sobs. I was barely conscious of his arm silently slipping around and patting me on the back.

“But… why?” I choked out, my voice hoarse.

He sighed, a sickly wet-sounding undertone following as if a chunk of mucus was in his lungs, “It’s a long story.”

I retreated to my previous spot, arms tired from the ordeal. I replied, trying to keep the auditory signs of my episode under wraps, “We won’t be busy… how’d they get you to talk?”

“Well,” Erhardt breathed, and then proceeding to surely twitch at a strike of pain, clutching his left side. I felt the slightest bit guilty for worsening his condition, but I was still processing the whole situation.

After a moment, he managed to get it under control, “Erhardt wasn’t my birth name. It was Johan.”

I merely stared at him while I still huddled in the corner, nodding to tell him to continue, “I had just turned 8 when the Great War broke out. After we lost, everything went to shit. By the 20s, I, a young man at that point, had become embittered to the rest of the world, like the rest of Germany.”

I couldn’t help the sneer on my face, “Then you shouldn’t have murdered millions of Frenchmen in the fields of Flanders.”

Erhardt held a hand up as if in self-defense, “I whole-heartedly agree. But that’s now. You weren’t alive or in Germany to see it. The post-war republic was a mess. My dad would be working three jobs at any given time just to try to keep up with the inflation. Paramilitary ideological groups would compete on the streets of Berlin. Lots of veterans returning from the army saw no other future in our tattered nation apart from those borderline gangs and joined up.”

I bit my tongue, knowing that a snarky comment wouldn’t help.

“For a while, I was no different. By 1926, I think, I fell hard into National Socialism and joined the party. My own hatred of anyone who I saw at fault for Germany’s loss in the Great War was fanned by the group. I was great at internalizing all that bitterness, turning into a single-minded machine to serve the party, which at the time I saw as the only way to revive our nation.”

“I was so fanatical I was essentially thrown into a leading a small squad of paramilitants in ‘28,” he let out a slow sigh, as if bracing himself, “I’ll be honest, I did some horrible things in that position. I try to forget and make up for them every day. When that abomination Hitler took power, I was assigned a higher rank in the military. I was ecstatic to see Germany truly rising up from the ashes that we were left in after the trenches.”

He paused for a moment, eyes drifting to the floor. Erhardt seemed to lose himself in his own thoughts for a moment before I snapped him out of it.

“And?” I prompted.

“I met Verona,” a tired smile tugged at his busted lips.

I sat still, waiting for him to elaborate. I had to prompt him again before he did.

“I met her in ‘35 in a bar and was near instantly smitten. Dark hair like you’ve never seen before, brown eyes like chocolate. We were inseparable for a while, though I kept it unofficial since I still wanted to have my military career come first and foremost.”

And then his eyes dullened.

“And then I found out she was a Jew. I honest to god thought about handing her over to the authorities thanks to my blind hatred. But I didn’t. I spent so many nights just screaming at myself because I didn’t know what to do. On one hand, I loved this woman. On the other, she was a Jew. The subhuman scum that had backstabbed Germany in the Great War.”

He sighed again, moving to lean against the cell wall, “I remember that one night, I got out of bed, looked myself in the mirror, and decided that I would march to Verona’s house and make a decision, then and there. So I did.”

I dread what I knew would be coming.

“When I got there, she was crying. Pleading. Begging for me not to hand her over,” and then a grin burst its way onto his face, “and I still remember it clear as if it were yesterday. I walked straight up to her and kissed her. I told her I wouldn’t hand her over, even if the Führer himself held a gun to my head.”

I paused, caught off guard.

Erhardt still continued, “After that, I slowly started realizing the abomination I’d become. And then, I had a crisis. I’d spent nearly my entire adult life goose-stepping as Hitler ordered me to, content to serve. But now, I realized how sick in the head they all were. How I’d been entangled in the atrocities against my fellow Germans.”

“I nearly threw away my whole military career on impulse that night, but Verona convinced me to sleep on it. And then I realized; I had some power in the government. I could do something. The first thing I did after that was get Verona and her family out of Germany as fast as I could.”

“So she isn’t dead?”

Erhardt shook his head, that grin still on his face, “I made sure Verona would be fine. She’s still living in the States, actually. She wanted me to come with her, to start a new life in America, but I couldn’t. I spent several months doing my best to get Jews and dissidents and all other peoples made societal dregs by the party out of the country and to places where they could live relatively undisturbed, like America and Argentina.”

I sat straight for the first time in a while, my back tiring of the huddled position, “So what happened?”

“Well, I was found out,” Erhardt hummed. He didn’t seem to be too troubled about it, “Was a whole scandal too; ‘Johan Schulz found aiding enemies of the country!’ was what the newspapers would’ve called it, I’m sure. But it was all kept hush-hush. I was stripped of my rank and put on probation because of it since they didn’t want to imprison a formerly high-ranking officer. Would’ve been an embarrassment.”

He closed his eyes, leaning his head on the wall, “So I lived like that for a year, constantly watching my back. Didn’t stop me, though. Still found ways to help smuggle refugees out of the Reich. But then those in charge started getting suspicious, and decided to pin several false crimes on me to get me out of the way. So, in the middle of the investigations, I decided enough was enough.”

“In September of ’37, I decided Johan Schulz would be no more. I faked my own death in Hanover, driving off a bridge into a river with a car. It was nowhere near as clean as I wanted to be; I must’ve lost hundreds of Reichsmarks as the currents washed the car away. But I survived, and I showed up in the newspaper the next day pronounced missing. And then, after a week of them searching but not finding anything, dead. I’d told my mother and father beforehand so they weren’t too affected.”

I pieced together the rest, “And from there you got to France after the war started, getting involved with the Partisans.”

Erhardt gave a tired nod, “For the most part, yes. Between ’37 and ’39, I was mostly in contact with several anti-fascist groups in Germany, namely what was left of the Three Arrows.”

I gave a confused glance, and he must’ve picked it up, “Pro-democratic organization; Three Arrows stood for against communism, fascism, and monarchism. After Hitler and his cronies took over, they were forced underground.”

I could only respond, “So not all Germans are goose-stepping morons?”

Erhardt shook his head, “It’s more complex than that. The older generations still remember the starvation of the 20s and the failure of the democratic government then, so most are simply content to be able to eat again, though there are many fanatics among them.”

He gave a hum, only interrupted by another wince, “And the younger generation barely remembers a time when the Führer wasn’t in charge, so they don’t know any other way to live but to goose-step. He made sure of that.”

It took a moment to process. The image of Germany in my mind had been one of fanatics, of a population made solely of soldiers and who would kill themselves as their oh-so-great Führer demanded. On some level, I knew this was false, but I didn’t care too much about it.

But now I was starting to realize how cracked that visage really had been. Erhardt had never really registered as a “German” to me, just someone who happened to have been born there. Even Konrad now was in the same classification, even if I had seen him as a German prior.

I put a screeching halt to that train of thought as fast I could, not in the condition or mood to deal with it right now.

“So how did they get you to crack?” I asked.

Erhardt sighed, “Threatened my family with violence. The Reich has a whole bunch of vague laws that lets them imprison anyone they want should they need it.”

With that, I stayed quiet. I simply tried processing all of that in the silence that followed.

“It’s so fucking cold,” I involuntarily muttered, huddling myself into a corner again. The frigidness felt like it was seeping into my very bones. The stone floor and wall felt harsh against my skin, only shielded by a thin layer of fabric thanks to my coat being taken.

Erhardt chuckled, “It is, but be grateful it’s cold and not blinding pain. Trust me, being a bit nippy is far better.”

“…I guess,” I mumbled, feeling my eyelids start to droop.

“You should get some rest,” he said, “Being imprisoned while tired is never a good idea. Steal some shuteye whenever you can in these situations.”

I gave him a curious glance, but it was already too late. I felt a yawn begin clawing its way out of throat. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.

X-X-X

“Herr Heißler sagte das Mädchen mit dem Verräter."

I sat up, groggy and cold. It seemed Erhardt was awake too, warily staring through the makeshift bars of the room into the hallway.

“What was that?” I groaned.

Erhardt grimaced, “They’re coming for you.”

“Fuck.”

“Just tell them what they ask and do what they say. You don’t even know much intel, apart from the base location, and that’s not exactly useful anymore,” Erhardt stated.

I heard the clacks of jackboots against solid floor, “Ich verstehe nicht einmal, was er mit all diesen Gefangenen will. Sie alle wissen offensichtlich nicht einmal von dem Typen, nach dem er fragt.”

I kept my gaze in the direction the voices were coming from, “What are they saying?”

Erhardt narrowed his eyes, “They’re saying the prisoners here are being questioned about some guy.”

“Some guy?” I echoed.

The man nodded, “Seems they aren’t looking for many resistance secrets now.”

Then, the Germans came into view. Two of them, one with a bolt-action rifle and keys and the other with an MP40. They both looked almost bored.

“Wie lange wetten Sie, bis er aufgibt?” the one with the MP40 asked.

Now I’m starting to remember why I hate Germans.

“Weiß nicht,” the one with the keys shrugged as he moved to open the door of our cell, “Herr Heißler ist seltsam entschlossen, also würde ich nicht vorschnell raten.”

They paused as the one with the keys walked in, pointing to me, “Stand.”

I glanced at Erhardt, and he simply gave a small nod.

“Stand, oder hast du mich nicht gehört?”

I tried to ignore my growing anger as I stood up. The whole time, the second soldier kept his MP40 trained on Erhardt. The first soldier slipped behind me, forcing my arms behind my back before leading me out of the cell.

“Ich bin froh, dass das einfacher war als die moisten,” the soldier said behind me as I stepped out the door before handing the keys to the second, who promptly closed and locked the cell door.

He gave a small grunt, “Sie ist eine Frau, sie würde natürlich leichter zurechtkommen als die anderen Gefangenen hier.”

I cursed my lack of knowledge on the language for a moment. I would’ve given anything to understand what they were saying. They seemed to continue to casually chat as we walked down the dimly-lit hallway. On either side, there were several cells housing two or three people. I recognized some of them as partisans. I had no idea what some of the unfamiliar faces in the cells did to warrant ending up here.

That ever-present cold seemed to return in force, now not only from the frigid floor underneath my bare feet, but a sense of dread in my bones. Even Erhardt didn’t know what to expect.

They walked me out of the hallway and into another one, leading me right before shoving me in a small room. It was dimly-lit, with the floor the same stone material as in the cells. An electric lamp hung above a small table, with a chair on either side. One chair was empty, while the other was filled by a man.

Fabian Heinsohn.

I’d recognize those beady little eyes anywhere. Behind him stood an officer of some sort, his face puffy and a donning a close shaven beard. I didn’t get much time to observe before I was roughly shoved into the chair by the soldiers.

“Bist du sicher, dass sie eine Rebellin ist?” the officer asked to the soldiers, “Sie scheint arisch genug zu sein, um an unserem Sieg teilzuhaben. Warum kämpft sie?”

One of the soldiers shrugged, “Ich weiß nicht, Herr Heissler. Sie ist die Rebellin, nicht ich.”

The officer sighed, speaking, “Toll, ein weiterer Arier, der von den Juden in die Irre geführt wurde. Herr Heinsohn, lassen Sie uns das hinter uns bringen und sehen, ob wir keine guten Informationen über unseren verlorenen Freund bekommen.”

Fabian gave a sickening grin, “Mit Vergnügen.”

“Makes sense I’d find you here,” I growled at the ex-partisan, “Misery loves company.”

The man merely gave me a cocky grin, “Oh, truly? Rather odd that the Reich is winning, while your little cell just got executed like the traitorous Jews they were.”

I had to restrain myself from lunging at the sack of shit.

“Well, let’s get this over with. I have many other prisoners to interrogate,” Fabian cleared his throat and straightened his back, acting as if he was some stuffy bureaucrat, “Do you know the name Konrad Feldpetzer?”

I could only stare in confusion. What the hell did they want with Konrad?

Fabien repeated the question again, this time his voice louder, “Do you know anything of Konrad Feldpetzer?”

Wait. This was the perfect time to lead them astray. I just had to play my cards right; anything to make those assholes waste resources instead of actually doing anything.

“I’ve heard of him,” I slowly said, my tone even.

Fabien penciled something down on that clipboard of his, nodding, “What was your relationship with him?”

“Acquaintance,” I replied, “I knew him as well as all the other partisans, so not much.”

The German stared into my eyes, idly twirling the pencil in his gloved fingers. His lips pressed into a thin line as he thought, gaze holding that flicker of sadism that burned so bright before. I did my best to hold it.

I wanted to strangle Fabien more and more by the minute.

After nearly a minute of our silent showdown, he wordlessly scribbled something on the clipboard without breaking eye contact. Being honest, I don’t even know if he believed what I said.

“Now, you will answer this string of questions truthfully, otherwise you will be subjugated to excruciating torture until you do,” Fabien stated, voice smug to match the eager smirk on his face.

Shit.

“Do you have an idea where he may have gone?”

What? I had to pause for a moment. He’d escaped? I mean, that had been the point of our groups splitting up, but it seemed like the fascists had covered the entrances so thoroughly. I then had to pause again to suppress a laugh.

Those fascists fucks couldn’t even catch an child! What an utter laughingstock.

“Answer. Now,” Fabien’s gruff voice broke through my thoughts.

Oh right. I made something upon the spot, trying to seem truthful as I stared at him, “I think I overheard his group say something about leaving Paris for southern France.”

The next thing I knew, red hot pain surged through my head as a soldier slammed the butt of their pistol on it. I grit my teeth, doubling over on the table at the sheer burning sensation. It must’ve still been tender from being thrown around in those explosions.

Fabien grunted, “That was a warning. Answer truthfully next time.”

I grit my teeth as the pain slowly crawled into a more manageable corner of my head. Maybe something more plausible?

“He said somet-”

“Look at me.”

I raised my gaze to Fabien, “He said something about staying in one of our safehouses in the ci-”

Thwack.

I was on the floor, my temple screaming in agony. I couldn’t do anything but instinctively clutch it, writhing on the ground. The sensation was so overwhelming I didn’t even notice the blood beginning to leak until I felt it begin to trickle down my face.

One of the soldiers roughly grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to my feet. I stumbled in his grasp as he all but shoved me back into the chair. The room was spinning. I felt lightheaded.

“Truth,” Fabien demanded, lifting a small blade, about the size of a pencil, “Or this’ll be drawing your blood next. Perhaps some skin, too. Then flesh. And then bone.”

I felt my hair starting to plaster itself to my forehead with sweat, mixing with blood on its way down my face. My mind wasn’t clear enough to properly think. What little energy I had left was used to internally panic over the wounds in my head.

Fabien grinned, sitting up, “Halte sie still.”

The two soldiers behind me grabbed my arms, forcing me out of the seat. I instinctively began fighting back, kicking and thrashing. I hit one in the shin, but I found success by nailing one in the groin. His grip on me loosened just enough to wrench my right arm free.

I tried slamming my fist into the other soldier’s face, but was promptly stopped by the thwack of the butt of a pistol to my head.

Again? I could barely tell where the pain was coming from at this point. It was all turning into one large swirl.

I stumbled forward, feeling my right arm restrained again. Fabien slowly walked over with the small blade in full sight. He let me see the glint of the metal in the harsh light as it approached. Having used all my energy in that attempt, I could only watch as he stepped in front of me.

And then he slowly began moving the blade to my bare left bicep. I felt the metal poke at my skin. Before he could cut anything, I shouted, “Wait!”

He paused, the sadistic flicker now turned into a wildfire in his eyes, “Ready to speak now?”

My mind screamed at me to lie in between its bursts and fits of anguish. But I couldn’t. I was already on the verge of death thanks to being tenderize by the explosions. I don’t think I could last much more.

I’m sorry, Konrad.

“He left Paris in a vehicle,” I choked out, feeling bile rise in my throat, “That’s all I know. I swear.”

Fabien glared at me, “Nothing more?”

“N-No. Our groups were separated before we could plan anything beyond that.”

“And your relationship with him?” he narrowed his eyes, the blade slightly cutting into my skin.

“Friend!” I cried.

Even without the blade stuck in my arm, it felt like Fabien had jammed it into my chest. I was giving intel to the fascist fucks that killed my family. That took my world and tore it to tatters, pissing on it afterwards. No better than dogshit on the streets.

And here I was.

Collaborating.

Fabien paused for a moment before stepping back. The sight of the blade now much further away from my skin did make me feel a bit better, but my mind was still cursing me out. I could almost hear the cries of my parents.

Traitor. Backstabber. Sellout.

The man hummed for a little bit, seemingly internally debating something. He then snapped up, “Das war's erstmal, Soldaten. Alles andere und sie wird wahrscheinlich sterben.”

Fabien then reached into his pocket, producing a syringe. I instinctively began struggling again, but he simply gave me a bored look, “Stop acting like a child. This is just anesthetic. We don’t do anything to you when you’re asleep—not that I don’t want to. It’d be rather counterproductive.”

Regardless of whether I believed him or not, I couldn’t do anything. Even before he said that, my struggle had been pitiful My arms were exhausted, feeling like hollow lead stapled onto my torso. I barely had the energy to even wince as the syringe pierced my skin.

I could only hear some more German as I started falling asleep, “Bring sie in die Krankenstation und dann in die Zelle, wenn du fertig bist.”

God, I fucking hated German.

X-X-X

I snapped upwards, immediately regretting it. My mind screamed at me for the sudden movement, still tender. The rest of my body felt just as fragile, with the added side effect of sluggishness.

“Slow down there,” I heard Erhardt’s voice, “I wouldn’t recommend exerting much effort.”

I was in the cell. For once, I was thankful for the dim light from the hall. Erhardt was sitting against one of the walls, and I was in the middle.

“…what happened?” I murmured, laying back down on the floor. It was by no means comfortable but until I learned how to float it was the best I would get.

Erhardt quirked an eyebrow, “You don’t remember?”

“No. I was out cold,” I grunted.

“So you remember your interrogation?’

“Yes. Now what happened?”

The man paused, “I don’t know much; they just threw you in here an hour ago. I’m guessing you got patched up by some doctor, judging by the stitches and bandage.”

“Stitches?” I breathed, snapping to face him.

Erhardt gestured to his temple, my hand automatically going to mine. I recoiled immediately in pain, but I definitely felt the material. I grimaced at the mental image. So getting bashed in the head with a pistol wasn’t all just a dream as I’d hoped.

“So what happened in there?” Erhardt asked.

I turned back to staring at the ceiling, “They’re going after Konrad.”

“Feldpetzer? That Konrad?” the man cocked his head.

I could only shrug on the floor, wincing at the movement afterwards, “Probably. He never told me his last name.”

“What the hell would they want with Konrad? He’s just a random partisan.”

“Maybe he fucked their commander’s wife after escaping,” I snorted.

Erhardt gave me another confused look, “He managed to escape?”

“Apparently,” I shrugged once more, “Otherwise they wouldn’t be asking about him.”

A contemplative silence followed. Erhardt seemed to be thinking, so I took the opportunity to try to shuffle over to the wall. It wasn’t easy nor comfortable in my prone position, but I managed. When I forced my torso upright, my head very much argued against it.

My vision went dizzy, the room spinning like a demented tire. I had to brace myself as if I was standing for a moment before it subsided. Then I heard ringing in my ears. Had that always been there?

After a few minutes, even that subsided. I was left alone to think, what with Erhardt in his own thoughts. After the all the pain, the quiet stillness of the cell was nearly unbearable. I’d been bored before, sure. But never was I in a situation where I couldn’t just walk away if I really wanted to.

Now, it was all I wished for.

But did I really have to give up information, even if it was barely important, to the fascists? It was the antithesis of everything I’d been doing for the past three years now. Even if my wounds had been patched up by the collaborationist “doctors” of Germany, the dagger in my chest still remained.

What would mom and dad think of this? How would they react to me ratting out a partisan ally? Scream at me? Spit on me? Disown me?

I didn’t even notice I was starting to cry until the I felt tears on my arm. Not again. I’d already been weak enough and just told the enemy what I knew! I didn’t need to start sobbing like an infant again.

“Annette? What’s wrong?”

Erhardt’s voice pulled me out of my rising panic.

“Nothing,” I hissed.

The cell leader deadpanned, “Then why are you crying?”

“Because I betrayed my fucking country!” I snapped, “I backstabbed every Parisian, every Frenchman, my own parents!”

“How so?”

“I gave up information to those fascist fuckwads after a hits from a pistol!”

Erhardt calmly hummed, “And what is so important about this information?”

“It’s not the importance of the information that’s the problem!” my voice was sore, but I marched on, “It’s the principle!”

“Alright. Were your parents good parents?”

My ongoing meltdown came to a screeching halt at that. What sort of question was that? I tried to respond with all the conviction I could muster while simultaneously sniffling, “Of course they were!”

“Well, then I’d imagine they’d be much happier that you came out of that situation relatively unscathed,” Erhardt offered.

“But I betrayed them!”

He sighed, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re still a child. You’re 19. That may seem all grown up to you, but it’s really not. I doubt most any rational person could hold it against an adult for giving up relatively unimportant information under threat of torture, let alone a child. Especially the parents of said child.”

I didn’t really have a response, so I just sat there as Erhardt added on, “And let me tell you as a man in his thirties and having dealt in bloodshed my whole life; when you get to this age, you’re just happy to see people come out in one piece regardless of principles.”

Malte Heissler

November 6th, 1943

Temporarily Occupied Portes de Versailles Café, Paris, France

---

“This partnership has been rather… fruitful for the both of us,” Grunfeld smiled at me behind his desk, a wine bottle in his gloved hands, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

I nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“A partisan cell so thoroughly… dealt with that we don’t even have to worry about escapees running off to other Jewish groups,” he popped open the bottle, filling two glasses on his desk.

I gulped, “Uh—about that, sir.”

Grunfeld gave me a curious glance as he moved to take a sip, “What about it?”

“We sort of have an runaway; K-”

“Konrad Feldpetzer along with three other rebels,” Grunfeld completed before taking a sip of his wine, adding on after, “I’m well aware.”

I cringed, “You are, sir?”

“Quite,” he nodded, “You seem to have… forgotten that I see everything. I hear everything. I know everything.”

My throat felt drier than the deserts of North Africa, “So—uh—following, I came here to ask if I could continue to have your assistance in chasing down Feldpetzer. I still feel filthy for not having killed him yet.”

Grunfeld stared me dead in the eyes, never breaking eye contact as he took another sip from the glass. He then put it down on the table, a wheezing sound coming from his mouth. Wait. That wasn’t wheezing; it was laughter.

“But of course!” he grinned once he got it under control, “Your chase has given us nothing but fortune so far! I don’t see why it wouldn’t continue doing so! Have a toast to our continued… partnership.”

With that, Grunfeld offered me one of the glasses of wine. I took a hesitant sniff.

“Something the matter?” the man paused, giving me another curious stare.

I shook my head, “No, sir. I’m just not a big drinker of wine. Back in Saxony, I’d drink beer more than anything else.”

“Then go on. Try it! Think of it as a… special treat,” Grunfeld grinned.

I paused, then decided to just suck it up, “I will. Thank you, sir.”

He raised his glass, and I clinked mine against his. I then took a small sip. The wine tasted hot against my tongue, and I just barely managed not to cough as it slid into my belly. I gently placed it on the table, “If all is good with you, sir, I’ll be going. I have some more work to do regarding Konrad.”

Grunfeld grinned, giving me a “go ahead” gesture with his hands, “I’d expect nothing less!”

With that, I stepped out of his office. I quickly legged it back to the bottom floor, narrowly avoiding bumping into an on-duty soldier guarding the hallway.

I managed to find Fabien waiting in my makeshift station, “Is the interrogation already over?”

“Sadly, yes. I was hoping for some resistance but she decided to comply,” he shrugged.

“Well, did you learn anything?”

“Yes; apparently, the lady was a friend of Konrad’s. They were split up while trying to escape. She got captured, though he allegedly managed to get a vehicle with some lackeys of his and drive out of Paris.”

I had to pause, trying to manage the annoyance beginning to bubble up, “I’ll search all of France if we have to!”

Fabien gave a hum, “As it stands right now, that might be necessary. We have no other leads as of yet, and cursory searches for evidence by people on the ground haven’t turned up anything.”

“I’m imagining you have some trick up your sleeve, though,” I stared at him.

The man grinned, “Right you are! I don’t have the rank or clearance, but I’m thinking that we should have somebody talk to his family back in Germany and see if we can gleam any clues from there.”

“How would that help us in any way?”

Fabien quirked an eyebrow, “Well, if you have better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

“Wait for the proper lead searches to be conducted on the ground?” I deadpanned.

“You and I know full well that could take over a week, and in that time Konrad could already have left France. Perhaps even snuck through the border into Spain, or onto a merchant boat for somewhere overseas.”

I grimaced at the idea, “Fine. I’ll ask in a favor.”