Dein Hand, in Meine

Chapter 20

La Résistance

On June 22nd, 1940, military representatives were ordered by Marshal Pétain to sign an armistice with Nazi Germany. Nearly two million Frenchmen were taken as prisoners of war to labor away for mainly; Germany (in agriculture/industry.) I had also heard instances where some were incarcerated or sent to prison camps.

The armistice had also required that any German citizen in France had to be turned over by German demand. Those who sought refuge from the Fatherland and those who had to remain in the German/Italian occupied France sure felt the hand that was raised over them, the hand of their invaders and the hand of their own government; the collaborationist Vichy.

French citizens were looked upon with contempt from their occupiers, and people of all political (aside from those who supported the pro-Nazi Milice française) and social standings.

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Paris, France
June, 1943

"They kill wrapped in our flag."

Sniggering, I tore the poster from the brick, making sure to give it a firm beating with the bottom of my shoes- which were already worn out from the others.

"Morceau de merde!" (Piece of shit)

I growled at the sight of the asinine propaganda. It was everywhere. But then again where wasn't there propaganda? The little drawn up "works of art" were a common tactic used by all sides of the war. I can't tell you how many times I have gone for a stroll and just looked up to find some SS soldier staring hard into my eyes, his raised finger accusing, his awfully forged smile menacing. Even the allied propaganda is too nationalistically disgusting for me to ever dare look at for longer than 10 seconds.

"Fight our wars! Push out the foreigners! Our nation will be victorious thanks to our leader and his ability to be the master of puppets!"

If I could take all the propaganda in the world and forge it into a punching bag; I would.

It's been a month since I've been in Paris and it somehow took me until now to realize that most of Europe is in disarray, France now included. I guess I just refused to believe that a place I've always known as home is once again another war zone.

After the move to France, I started realizing a lot of things collectively.

I had obviously grown older, not by much if you were to put it literally, but I felt as if I had aged eons within. I now sported stubble but still kept my hair gelled down to my head. This change was mostly to blend in.

I had ditched my uniform too, tucking it within a one-by-three hole in my wall and painting over it. (I had found a desolate flat within the city and decided it was best I stay within the shadows.) In place of my uniform I wore a long jacket with narrowed trousers.

Although my living space was smaller than back home, I still kept in mind that I had lived in the Italian's storage closet for awhile and that made me all the more grateful. I would not have to deal with another demand from anyone aside from Arthur either, which also made me feel a lot...better.

Being on the Champs Elysées (Elysian Fields) was also all the more interesting. The avenue was a spectacle, filled with brilliant stores and beautiful buildings. It was where the statue of Napoleon Bonaparte stood, and where German troops had marched past the Arc de Triomphe in 1871 in their victory in the Franco-Prussian war, where their echo was heard in July of 1940 when Paris had surrendered. The Champs-Élysées runs from the Place de la Concorde to the Place de l'Étoile and the lower part of the avenue runs through the Jardin des Champs-Élysées; a park containing the now-desolate Grand Palais and the Petit Palais.

The avenue had become my second favorite place next to my home in Berlin. If anything it became a second home.

Arthur had connections in Paris and had been able to get me French citizenship no problem. But even after a month being here I still had not mingled with any Résistance members. Though the propaganda that hung everywhere; spoke more than loudly of the "traitorous" citizens.

But even as I walk along the empty avenue, anxious to get back to what little comfort my flat offers, I still cannot shake the feeling that I am being watched.

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Hang up jacket

Check over rations

Read an excerpt from another Nazi/Vichy-endorsed newspaper

Spit on it

Read Le Temps

Die a bit on the inside of boredom

Close my eyes

Drift into a dream-like state of thought

Finally realize that I am wasting my time

With everyday, this became a routine. But as the days passed, the more appealing "going out" seemed. The Champs Élysées was a magnificent scene and I knew by keeping myself confined to my flat; I would eventually lose it. I had not talked to anyone since I arrived in Paris, thought really nothing of it aside from it being a way to "blend in."

You can't blend in with the rest of humanity without being human, right?

Tossing my copy of the atrocious Paris-Soir aside, I managed to belt my best trousers and slip on my best jacket. I combed my gelled hair back, and admired my new-found sense of style. In a huge way, just the way I dressed was a protest. I found comfort knowing that I was wearing clothing which- was made of thick material and lots of it, an easy way to piss of the Vichy whom had imposed rations on fabric. (I flip through the rations book but never really care to use it.) I knew in my withered rebel heart that I was not just blending in with anyone, but with young people who shared my wild desire to lash out against both the Vichy regime and the Nazis whom occupied. They had already taken one home, Berlin, but they weren't going to remain in the rest of Europe. Not if I could help it.

Locking the door on my way out, I had been thinking about where exactly I should go. There were several shops the avenue that I probably could not afford even if wanted to just browse; I could risk getting kicked out. Another option was to go sight-seeing but when there's so much fascism covering monuments, adorned by even the building walls, what really is there to see but the trash of those who suppress us, forced upon us.

But Prime Minister Philippe Pétain, I could see him now wriggling at the site of the Parisian youth, and even young adults. The Nazis gaze in horror at our jazz and swing, our "degenerate" music. I would love to see the look on all of their faces, to just smile in content at their nonsensical disgust.

Even though I had not run into those officially part of La Résistance, I had found a whole string of youths who rebelled in style and music. I admired everything about them. They called themselves "Zazous."

I stopped in my tracks in front of a café, Pam Pam. Faintly I could hear the sound of a record player which played Django Reinhardt's Zazou Zazou. Without hesitation, I pulled open the door to the café, whose balcony thrived with life.

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