The Life That I Have

Chapter 1

Anya scrabbled over the mossy windowsill, and threw herself into the room.

  She was safe. Picking herself up gingerly, she looked around cautiously. Peely wallpaper, dry rot, wet rot, bare of any furniture – home.

  Silently, she went into the hall and up the creaking stairs until she reached the second floor landing. This was the final part of her home run.

  Walking through to one of the doorless rooms, Anya made her way across to the walk-in wardrobe.

  Deftly retrieving a small key from her coat pocket, she unlocked the 'cupboard' and swung the grinding hinges back to reveal a staircase. The staircase leading to the attic – her domain.

  If you ever saw the attic, you probably would think you'd walked into another house by mistake.

  But after a closer look, there would be the same broken windows, only the glass had been swept neatly aside.

  There was an old rug in the centre of the attic, whose patten had long been indistinguishable. On it was a pile of old, ex-army blankets along with a battered leather suitcase.

  Flopping down onto the blankets, Anya thought about why she was there. How 'Uncle' Thomas had sent her away to that terrible French finishing school, where she was meant to be imprisoned until she was twenty-one, then 'Uncle' Thomas could disown her, like he'd always wanted to.

  Then, she remembered the night she had run away from the school, the night of her nineteenth birthday. She'd packed up her 'weekend clothes', her meagre savings, and fled through the dormitory windows, calling "Wish me luck" to her startled classmates.

  And then a new enemy came – the Nazis.

  Her melancholy thoughts were broken by a sudden stab of hunger from her growling stomach.

  She hadn't eaten since yesterday morning when she had stolen a loaf of bread from a neighbour's pantry. Her money was now useless – you needed to show your identification papers in nearly every shop – and Anya had none. Another problem was her French was terrible. All she had ever done in French lessons at school was to read an Agatha Christie novel.

  But now she needed food. Soon.

Glancing nervously behind her, Anya made her way down the high street.

  Her destination was in sight: the small café on the corner.

  When she reached it, she took a seat at a small empty table in the far corner of the courtyard.

  A sour-looking old waitress came over to her.

  "Your order?" she asked irritably.

  Anya decided to play the 'silly little girl' act.

  "Order? Oh, yes, order," she giggled, trying to cover her bad French. "I'll have a cup of coffee and a bowl of leak and potato soup, please, and afterwards, two slices of Lemon cake."

  The waitress gaped.

  "Ration card?" she asked.

  "My dad's bringing it, and the money. I'm meeting him here," Anya lied.

   The waitress strode off and returned five minutes later with the meal.

  Anya attacked the soup heartily, so heartily that she didn't notice the young German soldier standing over her.

  "May I sit down, mademoiselle?" he asked in French, heavily slurred by a German accent.

  Anya nearly choked on her soup.

  "If you like," she pretended to flirt.

  The Nazi sat down. He was about nineteen or twenty, with a thatch of straw colored blonde hair, and vivid blue eyes.

  He took off his cap, and placed it on his lap.

  "I'm sorry if I'm intruding, but there seems to be nowhere else to can sit," he said apologetically. "It can't be very nice for you to have an invader to share your table."

  Anya tried to look shocked.

  "Intrude? Oh, no! You are not the invaders! It is these ridiculous British!" she crooned, her fingers firmly crossed in her lap.

  "Thank you. But… if only the rest of your countrymen felt like that," he said sadly.

  Anya felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the young Gefreiter. How must it feel to be so hated? He might not have wanted to fight for Hitler.

  On a sudden impulse, she held out her hand.

  "Yvette. Yvette Yare."

  He took it.

  "Hein. Rudi Hein."

  There was an awkward silence,

  "I was wondering..." he said slowly, "There's a dance on at that small restaurant in Rue du Chat. Would – would you like to come with me?"

  Anya's heart sank. She now faced a dilemma – anger the German by refusing his offer – or go to the dance and socialize with all his Nazi buddies.

  But then she remembered – she was technically a British spy, and it was her duty to find out as much information as she could – and what better way to do it than socialize with Nazis?

  "Alright, then. Is it tomorrow?"

  "Yes. At seven, a few hours before curfew. Where shall I pick you up?" he asked eagerly.

  Anya looked closely at him. He was by no means bad-looking. Why was he so eager to take her out?

  Anya herself wasn't that bad looking either, with her chestnut brown locks and blue-green eyes.

  "No, don't pick me up. I'll meet you here," Anya replied. She definitely did not want him near her hideout.

  Rudi offered to pay for the meal, which was lucky, as Anya didn't want to do her walk-out-without-paying act in front of him.

  As she walked home Anya realized why he had done it. He had wanted a friend. Someone local who didn't just think of him as 'an invader'.

  Bad luck mister, Anya thought. You've picked the wrong gal.