Pillow Talk

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June 30th, 1940 in a small unnamed bar in Paris in the basement of a building that once housed many French businesses, sat Charise LeBouredeu. Paris had fallen to the Germans the week before. She had been inspired by Charles de Gaulle's radio speach on the 16th of June, but the death of her brother on the 23rd of June cemented her will to the resistance.

The man sitting across the table from her wore the uniform of a tank commander. His wrinkled face and bald head, gave away his age and the fact that he must be a man of importance. They don't put men his age in tanks. At least none of the men she saw in the tanks that overran Paris, were anything but young and strong. Charise was twenty-four but looked younger. She knew it, and when it suited her, she would dress and wear make-up to emphasize her youth. The single light bulb in the ceiling of this dark corner was covered with the brown nicotene of thousands of cigarettes. It gave everything below it a dirty cast of brown light. The smoke filling the bar only enhanced that effect. She was sure that he would think she was only eighteen or nineteen at the most.

The night after her brother was killed by an approaching tank, right before her eyes, she dyed her already blonde hair an even brighter shade of blonde. Her brother was only fourteen and curious. When he got too close to a tank and it pulled his leg under the tread, his screaming was enough to stop the tank. An officer seeing what had happened ordered the tank forward, rather than allow her to get him out. All it had to do was back up, and her brother would have lived. He probably would have lost his foot, but he would still be alive. Her screaming and pounding on the officer who ordered the tank forward was to no avail either. The officer slapped her down to the ground, leaving her crumpled there with blood streaming from her mouth and tears from her eyes.

This german soldier chose the small dingy unnamed bar over the cabarets that were popular with the younger soldiers. The fact that he sent a drink to the youngest looking girl in the bar, told of his obsession. He was old enough to be her grandfather. At least she thought so. She knew what he wanted. France has its own homegrown perverts as well. The other French patrons looked at her with disgust. At the end of the war she would be stripped, have her head shaven, be daubed with a swastika and marched through the streets as a collaborator, but she knew nothing of that fate. Even if she did know, she would have done the same. She knew what she was about to do was right.

As they would lie together tonight, she would feed his ego. She would get him to brag about his accomplishments. She would get him to tell her of his plans. Not in any obvious way, but as a time table to continue their secret couplings. Where he would be, so she could sneak off to meet him. All of this information she would pass along to those in the resistance. Hopefully to be passed along to the allies that continued to fight the Germans, as she did.

The nasty old German soldier commented on her bright blonde hair. She replied, "My father was German." She did not tell him that her mother had gotten pregnant by a German soldier in World War I, twenty three years ago, who she slept with to get military secrets. She wondered if her daughter would meet the same fate in some future unnamed war?


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