In 1939-1945, Ophelia Mariè Baudelaire, a French ballerina studying at the Teatr Wielki, in Warsaw, is caught in the crossfire as the Nazis overrun Poland. Hoping to survive long enough for the nations to make amends, she aids away with the help of...
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It seemed as though the arrival of the Nazi Heer aimed to distract the people in the town as they all ran by Ophelia in a scurry; wishing to observe the approaching of heavy armored tanks and riflemen. Ophelia would be the odd one out as she was the only one to walk in the opposite direction. Looking back as store owners brought down additional Nazi flags. The overwhelming shade of red waved in the air, signifying the approach of another day in sadism. Dragging her feet she turned away from the crowd. The frown on her lips and the depth of her thoughts appeared upon her fair face as she gimped on the sidewalk. A stare upon her sleeves had her remember that she still wore the wolf's coat. Mildly bashful, and annoyed she pulled at the leather hems and allowed it to glide off her thin shoulders. She looked around, unwilling to be seen wearing Von Wolff's coat, she let it dangle over her arm, making sure to hide the exterior of the leather pelt. It was heavy, and half her size but she didn't know what else to do with it. A part of her was tempted to discard it in a nearby dumpster. She had passed several along the way, but a part of her wondered if the coat was merely a loan. Would Von Wolff ask for it back? If she threw it away, what would she tell him then?
'It was heavy, so I threw it in the trash where it belonged,'
It was a sentence she would imagine she would want to form upon seeing him again, yet the weight on her arm remained. Ophelia couldn't bring herself to discard it entirely. Wincing, a tight closing of her eyes, she shook her head and groaned. She crouched down, hiding her face behind her hands as the memory of herself expected a kiss replayed back at her for the tenth time. Was she the one to lean in first, or was it Von Wolff? Why did she even let him get that close? Surely, he wouldn't have kissed her—she wouldn't have truly allowed it, right?
"No!" Ophelia exclaimed, slamming the coat on the floor. "Absolutely not!" Nearby eyes looked to Ophelia, startled by the girl's sudden outburst, but Ophelia didn't care for their judgment.
Skidding her feet, she dragged the heavy leather into the ground, her left ankle momentarily hooking onto the weight of it. Ophelia stumbled forward a bit, tripping over the thick material, before walking over it. Her arms folded themselves firmly over her chest as she hurried away. Crossing the street, she expected herself to be able to turn away from it and leave it for the strays to piss over, but with time she felt her steps dimmer in speed. Eventually, her feet stopped, and Ophelia looked as if it pained her to turn and look over her shoulder.
"Merde," she uttered.
Blaming it on the way she was raised, she walked back to it and picked it off the ground. Holding it out with her arm extended, she treated the neglected weather shield as if it was foul and below her grasping. "This is ridiculous, I could have been home by now—just grab it and go." She spoke to no one but herself in the moment. Was she being childish? Perhaps, but it'd make her feel better if she could say she was hesitant to take anything near courteous from that man. She didn't feel as guilty if she didn't hate him even just a little. Not that she liked him any more than she hated him. She did not know how she felt about Arthur Von Wolff, but she did not detest him as much as the other Nazis she had encountered, otherwise, she wouldn't have let him almost kiss her.
