Enemy at the Door

Outside, the broken, brumal condition of Marseille shows no progress, like a debilitating cancer, it's a terminal torrent. Singing shells of a sunset-tinted alloy char the earth. A water stain meets the carpet in every corner of the dining room. Before Ellie's grandparents arrived, they winced at the cries of families in other buildings, struggling to find warmth in the kinship of one another, mere kindling for the final fire that ends them.

Hugo is Louis' father. His scar-warped wrinkles, an ominous promise of Louis' future. They sit across from each other at the dinner table. Next to them, what seems like the audience clutched by the claws of a performance.

"Don't worry, El, with this cooking, you're not missing out on much," The brittle man says from the side of his weathered lips.

"Hey! What's the matter with it, Hugo? If you haven't noticed, salt isn't very common in a war," Claire refutes the insult. Hugo keeps eating.

Ellie is Louis' daughter, sitting at the table's head in the same wooden chair she's had since birth. Her pale, fox-face is indifferent to the color of the coarse crumbs in her mother's bread. And the way the boiled artichokes stick to the bowl in the centre of the table makes her want to throw it all back up before she even gets it down.

"All I'm saying is that she shouldn't have to eat. She's doesn't need all of that anyway – she's so little, she can hardly see her plate."

"Nonsense, Hugo! You're no better than a Kraut telling France what's good for it. Just because you want her portion...you could do with a little less it seems, no?" Louis' remark is the shaky scalpel held before Hugo's fragile ego. It had always been like this at dinners, but it was a matter, like the artichoke, best left untouched.

Through the window, Ellie's grandmother is transfixed by the horror of another explosion in the distance and the delayed blast wave that rolls glass ornaments along the table.

"Gentlemen, show some courtesy, please!" Gran slams her gnarled fists on the table, echoing the vibration of a shockwave.

She continues, "How can you boys fight when we are so lucky to be together? And must the women in the family always bear your arguments, huh?"

Louis chides her, "Lucky? Ma, have you been struck in the head?" He points out the window, "Good men are fighting for our country so hopelessly, while you weak women cower in our homes and darn your socks."

Behind Louis, a gun-show is displayed on the mantel. A Luger P08, Chauchat, Oerliken and an Adrian helmet, all held together with nails, and the fear of falling apart. Medals, reminding the room of his courage and service. Now, he lugs his trauma and pride like an artillery belt that won't come off.

Outside the window of the apartment block, a single, swastika-spangled vehicle is swarmed by French infantry, wearing the same helmets and loose clothing that hangs on Louis' mantle. Soldiers' screams take the form of whispers as they fear giving away a position, even in the cold clutches of death. One day, the garments of the succeeders will have pride of place on another mantle.

In seconds, the truck's tyres are slit, as are the throats of the German drivers. Across the river that separates Ellie from the peace-keepers, more men disarm the truck, piled with neighbors that weren't so fortunate to die from a blast.

From the radio on top of the kitchen counter, a raspy voice of an Englishman summarises the attacks in southern France from the past week. In Nice, a German division invades the homes of citizens, brutalizing those caught in the crossfire. And in Toulouse, only the skeletons of buildings and train stations remain.

Louis leans back in his chair when the man arrives at the forecast for Marseille: cannons, tanks, and Luftwaffe to be deployed within the next week. Shelter and food sources expected to be jeopardized by Schutzstaffel home-invasions.

The whole family sits in silence. Together. Trying harder to listen more than ever before and at the same time, failing tragically.

Exhaling sharply, Louis throws his fork onto his plate and kicks a chair over. Walking up to the pillar in the center of the room, he crushes the radio against the steel countertop, revealing the tangled array of cords on the inside, pulsing like a wound.

"Ellie, go to your room! You mustn't see us like this!" Louis cranes his neck, pushing her empty dish into the sink.

Walking around to the other side of the kitchen island, he digs his palms into the corner of the counter. His eyes beat behind their lids with a familiar chiding blow.

Below him, a German troop's collective shoulder bends the door of the Dubois family as they bellow commands through the growing gap. In seconds, the Nazi's achieve silence, and the floor stops vibrating, and Gran frowns knowingly.

Ellie drags her shadow along the floor, through the bathroom without a door, past the laundry where dish-soap masquerades as detergent. Her bedroom. Solemn. Serene. Still holding up.

She lies along the rusty coils of the worn mattress that would penetrate her flesh if the thin, sponge layer didn't bear the blow.

For Ellie, it is easier to endure the sound of shells and mortars outside than it is to listen to the war that rages in her own home.