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Ilsa had sat herself on the outside terrace of a café, somewhere near the palais royal. She had been sitting there for quite a while, ordering a piece of quiche, over and over, as a way to excuse her long stay at this place. For the waiters and even a bit for herself.
She didn’t really want to be in public, but that was still better than being home alone. When at home, she barely notices the change from one day to the next. She would be lying in bed for two days without even realizing it.
The other positive-part was that being in public somewhat held her back from spontaneously breaking down to cry. She had done that quite a few times these past few days. It was rather inconvenient and gave her a headache right after.
The past ten days - or had it been 12? - had been difficult for her. She had never felt more alone in her entire life. More alone than she had felt in the three and a half months before, in which she had been living alone in her apartment.
It’s not like she had to fear for her existence - at least from a financial perspective. Victor had left his money in Paris, as a way for her to live on as usual until he returned. Until he returned …
Ilsa felt a short but still strong pang of anger. Anger towards herself, for not forcing her husband to escape to some other country or at least stay in Paris. And then for a second she almost got angry at Victor, but she quickly stopped herself before her emotions got out of hand.
But her anger was replaced with an immense amount of sadness. She could still hear his voice echoing in her mind.
“After I’m done, we can have an official wedding celebration.”
“After I’m done, we can go on a honeymoon.”
“After I’m done, we can settle down.”
And now? Now Victor was truly done … forever.
She blinked fast as a way to keep her tears at bay.
Everything seemed hopeless now. Victor was gone. Most of her friends had left Paris and some even France all together. Her homeland was getting invaded. Her family, which still resided there, was soon living under a cold-blooded dictator. The Netherlands had fallen, and France was to be next.
She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know where to go. Like she was in a burning house. What if the Germans find out about her relationship with Victor? Would she become a prisoner? Or worse, be forced to be married off to some high-ranking official. She had heard stories of women like her, so called “Aryans”, being violated and-
“Pardon madame, ce siège est libre?”
She was torn out of her panic-spiraling. Looking up from her quiche, she saw before her a man, with dark hair, wearing a suit with a flower sticking out from his upper buttonhole, carrying a newspaper in one hand and pointing with the other to the empty chair at her table.
Ilsa understood a little French. She started learning about a year ago and could only communicate in basic sentences. Reading was working just fine for her, but actual French people rarely spoke at the speed she read. Through this small language barrier, she still managed to get what he wanted and nodded as a reply.
“Je peux me joindre à vous?”, he asked again, and Ilsa understood even less. She thought he was just making sure that this chair was actually free before he took it somewhere, so she nodded again.
He then proceeded to sit down at her table and unfold his paper.
Ilsa was a bit surprised, but tried not to show it, since this was most likely what he did ask about. But if he wasn’t bothering her, she wouldn’t go out of her way to bother him either. It was, after all, noon and all the other tables were already taken up. To be honest, she could only blame herself for sitting at this café for hours.
So she went back to eating her quiche, whose taste she didn’t really like anymore, while her companion continued to read his paper.
Some minutes had passed and the man at her table turned the paper over so she could see the front. He was reading an issue of Le Journal and, almost like destiny was taunting her, the header right under the newspaper name and date read: La guerre en Scandinavie. The war in Scandinavia.
Her eyes went back to her food, as a way to spare herself from news she didn’t want to get. But before she could zone out again, her table neighbor spoke up again.
“Comment est la nourriture ici? Vous avez des suggestions?”
The only thing that Ilsa knew was that he had asked her two questions, but she could only tell by the tone of his voice. Everything else was a mystery to her. So she used the sentences which were taught to her at the beginning of learning French.
“Je ne vous comprends pas. Je parle mal le français.”
The man across from her looked at her for some time, seemingly lost in thought about how to address her. He finally asks “Do you speak English?”
To which she replied in a neutral tone, “Yes, I do.”
“Well”, he said as he folded his newspaper, “You could have said so. I’m sorry for confusing mademoiselle.”. And he showed her a gentle smile, that she tried to return, but couldn’t, due to her inner turmoil.
Ilsa tried to explain herself. “In my French lessons I was told to never ask a Frenchman to speak English. They might be offended.”
“Then it’s good to know that I am no Frenchman. I’m an American.”
That left her a bit stunted. Normally, Europeans traveled over to the US for new opportunities. It was rare that an American was coming over to Europe. Maybe he was here on vacation - But who in their right mind takes a vacation in France when the Nazis are about to march in?
“Are you on vacation?” she asked.
“No, I live here. Have been for years.” he explained and then turned to a past walking waiter and ordered a café creme. He turned back to her. “Anything for you, kid?”
Ilsa was once again surprised. She stuttered something along the lines of: “No, thank you.”
“Do you live here?”, he asked her in return.
She wanted to answer … but she didn’t know what to answer. She was a Norwegian, who fled to France and married a Czechoslovakian. Her old home was under fire. Her current home was running out of time. Her future home … didn’t exist.
“I … I don’t know.”
He looked up with a confused expression. “You don’t know if you live here?”
“I don’t know, if I will live here any longer.” came out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
The man watched her with knitted eyebrows.
“Where are you from?”
Was she about to tell this absolute stranger, that she had only known for, at most, 15 minutes, her past? The answer was: Yes, but not entirely.
“I’m from Norway. My relatives sent me here.”. Ilsa lowered her head to hide her facial expression from the gentleman.
“Are they still there? Your relatives, I mean.”
Instead of saying anything, she just bit her lip and nodded quietly.
“And you are worried about them?”, he emphasized with her.
She blinked multiple times and nodded again, but this time she managed to get a few words out. “I feel so sorry for them. My aunt and uncle have given me anything I could ever need. I love them so much … and … and …and…”
Oh dear! She was choking on her feelings. Her throat grew tight and her breathing was speeding up. A breakdown was near. To mask it, she quickly took a napkin from the table to shove it onto her face.
“Hey, hey. It’s alright. You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.”, she heard across from her, as a hand came to rest on top of her, one that was still lying on the table.
Ilsa tried to calm herself down to the best of her ability. At the very least for the sake of the man, who had to share a table with her. She took her hand away from the grasp of the man, blinked a few small tears away and stuttered, “I-I’m sorry for bothering you, Monsieur. I’ll pay quickly and th-th-then let you be.”. Then she frantically began to go through her purse, to find her wallet and pay, to finally run home, or at least find a less public place to have this breakdown.
In a calm voice, her table neighbor said, “Hey now, I said nothing about you bothering me.”
For a moment Ilsa stopped her frantic search for her wallet. She forced herself to take a deep breath and refocus to answer him.
“I’m so sorry for …”
“Don’t say sorry. You don’t need to be.”
The man was right; she didn’t need to be. If she were honest, her reaction was only natural. Everybody around her was the one who was acting out of line. Carrying on as if Europe wasn’t on fire, culturally speaking. Maybe it was their way of keeping calm, of not breaking.
“Aren’t you scared?”, Ilsa asked him.
Her companion thought for a second and said, “Not really. I have seen too much, to be scared of a few fascists marching in. I’ve got nothing to lose, except my life, and that won’t even be worth a refund.”. He laughed cynically and folded up his newspaper.
Ilsa did not think it was funny, and she was almost appalled by his indifference. Those ‘few fascists’ had, after all, killed her husband. But then again, she shouldn’t judge how people work through their feelings during these difficult times. Maybe he had also lost someone who was close to him.
The waiter came by with the monsieur’s café and was about to turn back when he was held back. “Excuse-moi”, the man said, “Un verre de Champagne pour mademoiselle. Mettez-le sur ma note!”
Ilsa understood only a few words, but understood enough to know that this man was about to do something for her.
“Oh no, monsieur! Please don’t! I can’t take this.”, she pleaded.
But the man only smiled slightly. “Don’t be like that. You need something that soothes your feelings. Come to think of it … I could also use a little cheering up as well.” He turned again to the waiter and said, “Deux verres de Champagne, s’il vous plaît.“
The waiter wrote the order on his pad and then walked back inside. Ilsa turned to her companion, who was taking a sip of his coffee, and said, “You really didn’t have to do that.”
The man put the cup back down. “Oh, but I wanted to.” He made a small pause. “Everyone here is fighting some kind of internal battle. We are all just trying to keep some sense of ordinarity. Let’s just enjoy this after-noon together, hm?”
Ilsa nodded quietly and finally finished her quiche.
A minute later the waiter returned with two Champagne coupes. The man lifted his glass and said “Je lève mon verre à sa beauté!”
“What does that mean?”, Ilsa asks before putting the glass to her lips.
The man just smiled. “I lift my glass to your beauty.”
She was taken aback by his forwardness, and she almost wanted to admonish him, but then decided against it. After all, she was no longer bound to a man. She was a widow. A widow at the age of 26, what a life. Before she could follow up with evermore depressive thoughts, she muttered: “Til livet.”, and took a sip.
“And what does that mean?”, her new friend asked with interest.
A small smile came across her face. “It means: To life.”
“Oh, right! You’re a Norwegian. Say, where from Norway are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Ilsa’s mind almost went back to her family, who was fearing for their livelihood, but she forced herself to remember the positive things. The snow-covered mountains, to wander along in march. The colours of the various summer flowers that her aunt had planted in the garden. The beautiful Ingierstrand, where her older cousin scared her, by making her believe that some water creature was going to get her if she goes into the water, when she was just a little girl.
“Oslo”, she replied curtly, and tried to keep a neutral facade.
Her table mate thought for a second and then asked, “Say, is it true that the sun never sets in Norway?”
For a second she just looked at the man, as she let the question set into her mind … and then she laughed. A sincere and genuine laugh. Mouth open, teeth showing and head leaning slightly back. The first one in weeks.
Her seat neighbor wasn’t offended at all. He was even smiling a bit himself. “What? What’s so funny about my question?”, he inquired.
Ilsa finally said, “Norway is not some magical place that doesn’t experience nights. Especially all the year through.”
“I’m obviously not talking about all year around.”, he answered, now also laughing.
Through a few breaths she tried to calm herself down, then answers, “Some Norwegians, and I’m really saying some, do experience no nights for weeks. My cousin, who moved to Bodø, has midnight sun for over a month.”
“Right, midnight-sun! That’s what you call it. And I’ve heard you have a celebration around that?”, he replied.
Ilsa thought for a second. “Well, not a big celebration. That’s more a thing for Swedes with their Midsommar. Ours is called Jonsok. My family would just light a fire and eat good food. As a girl, I would pick flowers and put them under my pillow.”
“Why would you do that?”
Lifting her glass of Champagne for another sip, Ilsa let that question sit in the air for a while. “I was told … that if you put some flowers under your pillow and sleep on them on the night of Jonsok, you are supposed to dream about your future spouse.”
The man smirked. “And did you?” He asked in a way that would enable her to say something fun or quirky, but Ilsa was again lost in thought.
She wasn’t a genuine believer in Norse superstition, never really was. She knew it was mostly fiddle-faddle from old folks. Cautions from previous times that warn against dangers that stopped being fatal once humanity entered the age of enlightenment, if at latest the industrial age.
But that was one of the few tales she chose to believe, as did most of her then school friends. She did it for a few years and stopped sometime when she was 16 or 17. Most of the dreams she had on such “magical” nights were pure nonsense, and she couldn’t possibly find out who was her one true love. As a matter of fact, she once had a dream where she saw a man, then woke up into another dream to meet a completely different man, and to be honest with herself, she couldn’t remember either of their faces.
“I … don’t think so…?”, she finally replied, after letting the man wait for seemingly eternity.
He “hmph”d in a friendly way, but did not push her any further, and simply drank his Champagne.
Most of the surrounding people started to leave their tables, probably to go back to work, since it was now close to 2 in the afternoon. She wondered why her companion didn’t leave too. He did not seem like he was out-of-work. But to be fair, neither did she, and she hasn’t held a job since she had come to France.
“Aren’t you going back to work?”, she asked unceremoniously, and nodded her head towards the other guests that were packing up their things.
The man, who was in the middle of taking out his silver cigarette case from his jacket, shook his head. With one cigarette already in his mouth, he quickly asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”, to which she replied with “No”. After lighting his sigg and blowing a cloud of smoke, he finally answered her question.
“I’m not working until later. I own a bar in Haut-Marais and we’ll open at 6 in the evening. So I have a bit of time to kill, until then.” He smiled at her and then asked her in return, “What do you do?”
Ilsa didn’t know how to reply. She was unemployed and was rather embarrassed about it. Not only was she unemployed, but she couldn’t even call herself a housewife, since she didn’t really have a house and was no longer a wife. She didn’t even take care of anyone, or anything, besides herself.
“Well … I haven’t gotten a job since I have come to France.”
“Did you have one back in Norway?”
“Yes, I did. I used to be an electronic test technician. I would check wiring and switches on radios, to make sure everything worked fine, before they were shipped out.”, she told, remembering her days in the Radiofabrikk. The work wasn’t the hardest and deemed acceptable for women to do. It was a bit boring, but it paid her not too badly and while fixing broken circuits, she could chat with her co-workers, mostly consisting of other women and one man named Sverre.
Her table neighbor was seemingly surprised. “Oh, I didn’t think that an electronic company would hire … I mean, I’m not against it or anything! I think it’s great that opportunity is given to … others. A-A-And I’m sure you were qualified for your position and did a wonderful job.”
Ilsa let out a series of giggles as the man tried to sound as inoffensive as possible and nearly dropped his cigarette in his frenzy.
“No, no, you didn’t think they would hire a woman. It’s alright. You can say it.”, she said calmly, but still smiling. “And honestly, they probably just took me in because the work was monotonous, relatively easy to learn, and because I would cost less than a man doing the same work. And before you start; you really don’t need to feel sorry for me.”
“Well, then …” he said, having somewhat calmed down, “Let me buy you another glass of champagne, to account for the uneven distribution among the sexes.”
But Ilsa was already thinking about moving on. Paying for her food and then going to a park or something. She said, “Thank you very much Monsieur, for the Champagne and everything, but I really should get going.”, grabbed her purse and called the waiter over, to pay for her three quiches.
While the attendant was calculating her costs, her new friend asked her if she had anything planned for later today. Ilsa thought it through. Her evening plans usually consisted of her wallowing in her self-pity, while rolling in her lonely bed. So no; she didn’t have anything planned tonight, but she still didn’t give a clear answer.
“If you should need some company later, come by my bar.”, he said and gave her a half-empty matchbook, with the address of the establishment printed on the back.
He clarified, “It’s across from the Hôtel de Saint-Aignan.”
She said, Thank you, as was getting up from her chair.
“Oh! And if you don’t see me, ask the bartender for Rick.”, he called to her and then unfolded his paper to continue reading.
Ilsa went on her way and waved him a quick goodbye, before going further down the street. Past noisy cars, people who wanted to get to the Palais-Royal, groups of school-children who made plans for the weekend, and the occasional pigeon. Going around the Louvre, across the street, under the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, and stopping at the entrance of the Jardin des Tuileries, where she sat on one of the benches.
In her hand was still the matchbook the man had given her. It was a simple dark-grey with curly writing reading: Café Blanc - 64 Rue du Temple. She put it in her purse and tried to think her next steps through.
Ilsa let the previous conversation drift through her mind. Rick, or Richard he was supposedly called, had seemed like a nice man, and if she was honest, she could use the company. But deep down, she felt filthy. Like she was unfaithful to her husband. And suddenly, Ilsa was fighting an inner storm of emotions.
Who said anything about them getting closer? They could simply stay friends! But she could feel the sprout of some new feelings … That’s right! She was a cheating wife. No, she was not a cheating wife, since she was no longer a wife. But to let a new man into her life so soon after her husband’s death. Is that right? Is it morally correct?
She felt like a horrible woman, even if she had done nothing wrong.
After contemplating for a few more minutes, she got up again to walk a bit. Then came to stop again, when coming face to face with a statue. Venus was residing in the park, her eyes empty and hands in a mysterious pose. She was slightly corroded and in some places covered by dirt. And while looking at the Lovegoddess, Ilsa thought of a poem she had once read…
Come again to me! O now! Release me!
End the great pang! And all my heart desireth
Now of fulfillment, fulfill! O Aphrodite,
Fight by my shoulder!
Oh, why was she tormenting herself like this?
Before Ilsa knew it, it was evening again.
She was riding the metro, picking at a loose thread from one of her nicer dresses, that she had worn so rarely. Sitting amongst people who were all going in the direction of Mairie des Lilas. Most were either coming home from work or going out again to paint the town red. Finally, her station was coming up. Ilsa squeezed through the standing passengers, out the door, where she then followed the sea of people past the Rambuteau sign and out of the exit.
As daylight waned, she walked down the street to the known address. Then stopped once she was there. She looked up to the address and sign, and then back down to the matchbook.
She let out a nervous breath. She must not feel ashamed. It’s the most normal thing to want companionship. And if it leads to more, so be it…