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As dawn broke the darkness over Paris, Margarete was ready to leave. She had been ready to leave for hours now, pacing back and forth in her apartment as she awaited the end of the curfew at five in the morning. Her thoughts were scattered, worries over the possible failures of her mission, worries over the safety of the people who were involved in it...
But each of her thoughts led her back to yesterday's events, to the mysterious German whose face in her memory had already acquired a misty quality, making it all the harder for her to understand that flash of memory she had when they first met.
A knock came at the door and Margarete jumped, almost knocking over a blue vase which came with the apartment. She glanced at the clock. It read 4:40. A long, chilling shiver ran down the length of her spine.
"Qui est-ce?" she asked, swallowing as she tiptoed to the door, every creak of the old floors playing the strings of her fear.
"Margot, it's me," she heard an old, kind voice on the other side and exhaled in relief.
The door clicked open to reveal a wrinkled, small lady who lived in the other apartment on her floor. Audrie had always been welcoming, whenever Margarete needed help or comfort over her lengthy stay in Paris, where she awaited further details as to her goal in France.
"Mon Dieu, Audrie, you've scared me so much," Margarete breathed out, stepping aside to let the old woman through. She had always been amazed at the kindness her neighbor had shown her, expecting nothing in return, and having deep, terrible secrets of her own.
Margarete had known for a long time that Audrie's aged husband was an unregistered Jew.
"What is going on child," the old woman asked as she entered the apartment, "I've been hearing you wearing down your floors for hours. Is everything alright?"
Margarete sighed, trying to not let the extent of her worry show as she offered a small smile.
"I'm leaving today," she said, watching the woman's eyes form a small, surprised 'o' with her mouth.
"For where?"
Margarete bit her lip uncertainly. "It is better if you do not know," she whispered, "If anyone... if anyone comes looking, I don't want you to get into trouble because of me."
Audrie listened carefully before nodding in understanding. "Is this about that man outside yesterday?" she asked gently, catching Margarete off guard.
"Ah..." was all the girl uttered as she looked about her. "I am not leaving because of him, Audrie. But... If he comes looking, tell him whatever you need to, don't test him, please."
Margarete leaned in closer and whispered, "He is an SS officer."
For a second, she saw a sad, tired look cross Audrie withered, exhausted face. "I'm so sorry," Margarete whispered, blaming herself for bringing this man to her house. To this house.
She closed her eyes as she sighed, shaking her head. Margarete felt a small, gentle hand touch her shoulder, and her eyes opened to see a ghost of a smile on the woman's face.
"There is nothing to be sorry for, my dear Morgot. We have lived our age, now you must live yours," was all the old woman said as she patted Margarete on the shoulder gently in a goodbye neither of them wanted to say.
"Godspeed," Audrie whispered at the door before slowly disappearing out of sight.
Margarete never saw her again.
...
Margarete hurried out of her apartment as the curfew lifted. Her two suitcases were filled less with clothing, and more with books which she used to decode the messages she received. She stumbled through the door, feeling something tug on her beige coat.
"Jesus," she hissed as she turned to see her coat stuck in a sharp metal detail of the door. She pulled at it impatiently and heard a small sound of ripping threads, but she was in too much of a hurry to glance at the damage.
She fumbled for the key in her bag, and as she was about to pull out the jingling metal, the strap of her bag slipped off her shoulder, spilling the contents of her bag onto the floor.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" Margarete cursed as she knelt to stuff everything back in. If she didn't have a boat to catch, she would have spent much more thought over the shattered box of face powder which showered fine powdered dust across the floor.
"Come on," she sped herself up, stuffing everything in and locking the door. On her way out, she slipped the keys, as promised, into the mailbox of the house owner.
In seconds, Margarete was through the door and stepping into the chilly March morning. She checked for her ticket, but it never crossed her mind to check for the receipt.
