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| 2008-07-30 12:28 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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I feel that I'm betraying Yuri, wherever he may be, and the Resistance, but I find that I do not mind the company of a young German soldier stranded in Paris. He seems so out of place here and with the Nazis, and I'm beginning to realize that not all is black and white. Do not get me wrong; I want the Germans out of here more than anything in the world, and I'm still angry and I blame them for what happened to my husband. But just like the French, not all Germans are one. I am slowly realizing this.
I'm hesitant about building a friendship -- I have only spoken with him on two occasions. But at the same time I yearn for the company of another human being, one that isn't paying me for a good time, and he is so kind and seems so innocent. I do not know what to do.
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| 2008-04-20 22:04 |
| Temptation |
| Public |
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Papa went to le marché every Thursday, and I always went with him. We went on Thursdays because it was payday, so we could afford groceries for the next week. Papa would walk down the street, his huge rough hand holding my small one. I had to practically run to keep up with his long strides -- Papa was a very tall man. I always looked forward to going to the market because there was a lovely display of sweeties in the front of the shop, on the shelf just below the cash register, and if Papa was in a good enough mood he would let me pick one for after supper.
Papa wasn't in a good mood this Thursday, though. I could tell because he didn't talk much; instead he nearly dragged me down the road, the francs from that week's paycheck crumpled in his free hand. Papa was never really in a good mood anymore. He didn't sing when I played the piano and he would get irritated if I played without him asking. I heard him talking to a neighbor the other day, and he mentioned how things weren't so good at the mill where he was currently employed. This was the start of Papa's work troubles and the start of his descent into severe depression, though I couldn't know that at the time. I was only eight.
Anyway, we went to the market. "Papa," I asked, holding my school hat on my head with my other hand so it didn't fall off onto the muddy road. "Papa, may I get a sweetie at the market?"
"Eh?" He looked down at me as though he didn't even realize I had been clutching onto his hand for the past four blocks. "No."
I felt sad because I thought I was annoying him, so I trotted along in silence next to him until we finally reached the shop. Papa picked up some salted ham, carrots, onions, cheese, and a loaf of day-old bread, but it was less than we normally got. I didn't say anything though -- my eyes were too glued to the glorious display of bon-bons at the front of the store. They were always wrapped so prettily, with brightly colored foil and designs. And they were sweet -- oh, were they sweet! I loved holding them in my mouth, letting the chocolate melt onto my teeth and tongue and throat, making it difficult to speak for all of the thick sugary brown stuff coating everything.
"Papa," I asked again, the desire for the chocolate too much to remind me to keep my mouth shut. "Papa may I please have a sweetie?" He had been busy looking over the items in our basket, counting and adding prices under his breath in a constant muttering. His dark eyes flicked to my face, flashing in anger and annoyance.
"I said no! Be quiet, Victoire!" I complied, again falling silent. Once Papa decided we had enough money for the few items in the basket, he brought them to the cashier. And there they were -- the candies, so close I could make out every design on every wrapper. I really, really wanted a candy, more than I ever had before. I don't know why. Maybe it was because Papa was so adamant in his negative answer. I looked up at him. He was busy with the shopkeeper, counting and laying out the money on the counter. I don't know what possessed me to do what I did next. Quicker than blinking, I stuck out my hand and took a sweet and quickly pulled my arm back inside the cape-like jacket that was part of my school uniform. I looked up nervously at Papa and the shopkeeper again. They had not seemed to notice.
Later that evening, after supper, I went into my bedroom and closed the door. The sweet had been kept safe and hidden in my jacket. I took it out of the pocket and held it in the palm of my hand, anticipation building because I knew the deliciousness that awaited me. I carefully unwrapped it and put it on my tongue. It was wonderful. But as soon as it had melted, I started worrying. What if the shopkeeper knew I took it? What if he found out, and what if he came to our apartment? I knew what happened to thieves. They were arrested and put into jail with the other criminals, and they were only fed stale bread and water. They couldn't go outside and play, and they couldn't play the piano or kiss their papas good night. I was a thief! I had stolen that bon-bon, stolen it after Papa told me that I couldn't have one! I wished I could have taken it out of my stomach and put it back into the pretty paper, brought it back to the store and no one would have known.
I stayed up the entire night with a stomachache, waiting to hear the wail of police sirens.
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| 2008-04-05 13:52 |
| Family |
| Public |
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I had a mother and a father once. My mother I never knew, but I have her hair, her eyes, and her manners, or so my father told me when I was very little. I know her name was Josette, and I know she sang opera but was never good enough for the opera house. I have seen only one photograph of her, which I took with me before I went to the orphanage.
My father was very handsome. He was tall, with darker features and hair. The only feature I inherited from him was his nose. Unfortunately, I do not have any pictures of him. He didn't like his photo taken, and the only photographs of him were hidden somewhere in his room and I didn't have time to find and take them before I left. He liked when I played the piano for him, especially when I sang old American songs from the 20s. He was a lover of jazz. I remember he saved up for several months in order to buy the old out-of-tune piano that sat in the parlour our small three-room flat. He would sit in the kitchen just off the front room with his legs crossed right-over-left, a glass of scotch in one hand, conducting with the other, his eyes closed as he hummed along with my voice. Sometimes he would join in. Those were the times before he was very sick. Before he couldn't live any longer. After that, I was alone for many years, until I met Yuri. My darling Yuri, tall and skinny with dark hair and glasses, with a mind for business. He was the first man that I ever loved, besides my father. He broke the law to defend me and now he is probably dead. I have several photos of him, most of them kept in a box under the bed. This is also where my mother's photo is, along with letters from Yuri and other things that are more valuable than treasure. This is a photo from just before Christmas last year. He looks quite annoyed in it, but really he was pretending to be angry because he didn't want me to take his picture. This was the last picture I took of him. Now I have no family. This is the first time I ever really admitted it on paper or out loud. It makes it all too real. It forces me to admit a weakness. I am very lonely.
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| 2008-04-04 17:57 |
| How did the Great War (WWI) affect you? |
| Public |
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I was born at the end of the war. Within five months of my birth, the Allied Forces had an armistice with Germany. My mother died in childbirth -- she was a tiny little thing who was generally in poor health anyway, so the labor was just too much for her. She was alive just long enough to name me. My father, however, did fight in the war. He was part of the Chemin de Dames. It was terrible. Over 100,000 French troops died, including my father's closest friend. He was called home after my mother's death in order to take care of me, but my father was not the same. He suffered severely from depression and something else that I do not know the name of. He would have terrible nightmares, I could hear him from my impromptu bed in the living room. In them he was shouting words that didn't make sense and sometimes he would cry. My father couldn't keep a steady job and had trouble finding work. We were quite poor as a result. My father took up drinking instead. He didn't harm me when he was drunk; rather he was always very sad. I usually had to make my own supper. However, I loved my father. He was the only family I had known since birth and we did have a close relationship, even when he was sick. It wasn't until it started getting very bad that we drifted, he not able to have a functional relationship with anybody, and I was just sad to see him that way.
One day, when I was fourteen, I had received highest marks on a math test. I ran home from school in a whirl, excited to tell my father about my great achievement. The second floor apartment was quiet, so I thought my father might be sleeping. He was not in his bed. I went into the kitchen and that is when I saw him: he was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, a gun only inches from his hand. The neighbors weren't home, so I sat in the kitchen with my dead father for a few hours until they arrived. I told them what happened and they phoned the police, telling me I was a silly girl for not doing so myself. And so I became an orphan.
I have one aunt living in Florence. I had never met her and she had no desire to change this. I was put in a Catholic orphanage on the other side of Paris.
That is the short version. I won't go into all the sordid details of how I ran away or any of that. But the war took my father and it took my childhood, even though I didn't live through it. I'm afraid that's what this war will do to my children, if I ever have any, and to children everywhere. It's such a sad, terrible thing, war. But I'm afraid the world deems it necessary.
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| 2008-04-03 20:55 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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Only three months ago you were here. Your pajamas were folded at the end of the bed. I moved them to your pillow. They still smell like you, like soap and cigarettes and Russian cologne. When I can't sleep at night I lie on my back and talk to the darkness, just like we used to do, except it was your body beside me instead of pajamas. Pajamas don't make the mattress sink down. They don't breathe slowly and deeply when they are silent. They are always silent. They don't reach out to touch my hand to comfort me and they don't kiss me good night. They don't drink good wine, they don't laugh loud and clear like a bell, they don't sing Russian songs while they're cooking. I could love them more than the stars, but they wouldn't love me back.
You don't know that I'm back into my old habits, selling my body in order to live. I have to close my eyes most of the time now. I don't pretend they're you because no one else could ever come close to that. Instead I pretend that every man I sleep with brings me one day closer to you; every man is a step on my journey back. It helps, a little. I never used to feel disgusted with myself after work, but now I shower for a long time afterward. Sometimes I'm in there for hours. I tell myself that it's not my fault, it's the Nazis that took you away from me and it's because of them I have to be a whore to make money. And really, there is no work elsewhere. I tried everything I could before I made the conscious decision to look for a brothel. At least this one is safer, the clientele is a higher class, they pay better and they treat the girls better. Listen to me, making excuses for broken promises.
I still wear the ring. It is the only thing keeping me sane, my mind dependent on a small piece of silver.
I hate this city.
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