16 July (Short Story)

Chapter 03

16 July 1942, Paris:

I rose at dawn when the amber-gold sun had not yet eclipsed the Eiffel Tower, and many of my fellow soldiers were still recovering from the excesses of the previous evening.

As a thirty-year-old naval officer enjoying a respite from active duty I was quite enthralled by Paris and wanted to spend as much time as possible exploring all of its grandeur. Consequently, I attempted to rouse myself from slumber each morning as early as possible.

My apartment was located in the charming neighbourhood of Montmartre with a decent view of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica and the accompanying park: characterized by sprawling green lawns and manicured garden beds of summer flowers. From my balcony, I could also view the café that the brilliant painter Vincent Van Gogh had frequented during his time in Paris. I imagined him perched upon one of the café chairs—a pensive expression etched into his face as he sketched the surrounding narrow streets and tenements.

I found my room to be equally pleasant. An oak four-poster bed with luxurious silk sheets, a mahogany dressing table with fashionable oval mirrors, a Persian carpet, a comfortable sofa and a long secretary desk provided me with contentment on the rare occasion that I spent the evening in. My name in cursive letters: Alexander Buchardt appeared quite nicely on an unfinished handwritten note to my wife Johanna Amelia Buchardt in Munich.

Dressing and combing my fair hair with castor oil, I departed from my apartment and embarked on a brisk walk about the streets nearby—mainly strolling along the Rue Saint-Vincent and Rue Du Mont. This was something of a morning ritual as I waited patiently for the cafés to open immediately following curfew.

As I rounded the corner onto Rue Du Mont once again, my nostrils were flooded with the balmy scents of women's perfume and freshly baked pastries from the café. Glancing at my wristwatch I was relieved to discover that it was already past five o'clock in the morning—thus the curfew had been lifted.

The cacophony of human screams upended my pleasant mood.

A group of Parisian police cars and buses were parked across from my beloved café—a herd of Jews being corralled into them. Many were women and children. One of the young women saw me, her face contorting with disgust. She barely looked older than a teenager, and her alarmingly petite frame was emaciated and gaunt, like that of a skeleton. I felt a prick of shame. I had never shared the anti-Jewish views of my comrades and yet I had done nothing to impede them.

As the buses pulled away, I tried to compose myself and slinked over to the café terrace. Settling into one of the chairs, I eased the unpleasant scene from my mind by observing the gushing vitality of the city. A handful of fellow German soldiers were congregated near me, their backs hunched over small cups of coffee—likely purchased through the black market. Those, like myself, who were well-educated read from the French-language newspapers, although many still made use of German papers.

The waitress hurried over to my table to ask what I would like. Her name was Suzanne and she was a beautiful woman, though she refused to look at me—keeping her eyes lowered. I noticed that many of the Parisians shared this same habit. They continued their lives as before the Occupation, appearing visually uninterested by our presence.

Not wanting to accost Suzanne as many of my fellow soldiers did, I simply requested a cup of coffee and a pastry. I hoped that my good manners would be evidence of German politeness to the French. Though we were their occupiers, there was not a reason we could not convince them of our goodwill. I myself possessed an affinity for French art and culture and consequently believed that the French people could enjoy a favourable position in the Reich if they were willing.

I enjoyed my food and drink while leafing through a French newspaper and periodically glancing up at the encroaching sun. Several Parisians walked past. Like Suzanne, they did not look at us but kept their eyes trained on the curved street ahead of them.