One

Paris. (Six months After Liberation)
17th March 1945
3.30pm

"We are here in Paris - Paris which stood erect and rose in order to free herself. Paris oppressed, downtrodden and martyred but still Paris - free now, freed by the hands of Frenchmen, the capital of Fighting France, France the great eternal." (De Gaulle)

A
lbert Kramer sat patiently by the coal stained fireplace in the corner of the squalid café as he waited for the former SS commander to arrive. The man was late, but that was to be expected, moving around Paris was not as easy as it once was. His narrow eyes squinted in the half-light as he languidly attempted to read yesterdays paper, his eyes picked out the words but his mind was elsewhere. He was getting nervous.
His pale face looked almost translucent under the soft afternoon light that had managed to creep through the unwashed windows. The brief illumination felt like an unwelcome guest as it lit the shadowy corner of the room lighting his features making him more visible than he would have liked. He shifted uneasily in his chair as he tried to sink back into the shadows, back into obscurity. The slow movement made his back twinge causing a shooting nerve pain to rocket down his leg. He grimaced in silence made a fist and attempted to massage his aching spine. He would have no chance now if he was spotted his body wasn’t ready for the chase. He crossed his legs and ignored the pain he was desperate not to get caught he had come too far.
He sat still and waited, it was only his eyes that moved as they scanned his surroundings in an attempt to piece together what had happened to the cafe since his last visit. His face a usual oasis of featureless serenity for once could not hide his disappointment as he remembered back to when this café was the jewel of Paris. The place had fallen into neglect since his last visit. The “Peu de Café Rouge” once a great name for fine dining where it’s central location and exquisite prices were the perfect recipe for exclusivity. It was a place for wealth a place for Germans, but the liberation changed all that and shortly after the last of the Nazi’s fled east the resistance enforced a citywide boycott. Now it was only frequently but tourists and those who were stupid or naive enough to think that he resistance had forgotten about the cafes hospitality towards the previous regime.
Since the large income of previous years had dried up the café now looked more like a flophouse than a place of business. The beautiful hanging baskets that once cascaded purples and whites over the frontage had withered away leaving a faded scarlet sign. The only plant life that remained were the dark green patched of mould that clung to the walls like limpets on a rock.
The hexagonal flagstone patio with its enviable collection of Art Nouveau outdoor furniture had also disappeared. The furniture sold to prop up the flagging business had never been replaced leaving an empty space where people once queued to sit. The interior of the café had faired no better. The small floor space was only big enough to accommodate five tiny tables, which in Kramer’s view was one too many as it had been a squeeze to get his small frame to the table at the far end of the café. The walls were bare bar the odd square outline where pictures once hung. While the clear yellows and browns of heavy nicotine staining acted as a warning to avoid touching the walls. The wooden floor was just as bad it was now black from the neglect of spilt drinks and discarded ash making sticky and wholly unpleasant to walk across.
Albert Kramer had arrived just in time. Outside the sun had finally been swallowed by the thick muggy clouds above that were turning black in preparation to drop their heavy load on the murky city. The air was still as though it knew what was coming and was taking a deep breath before the big event. The city’s swollen population could also see the signs and were preparing themselves for the spring storm that was now only minutes away. All along the Seine the green-topped market stalls holders were all quickly packing away their goods eager to avoid the imminent downpour that threatened to ruin another unproductive day. Kramer watched it all his eyes lifted from his paper just in time to see the first few droplets of rain land.
The storm then announced its arrival with a loud roar of rolling thunder. The streets were deathly quiet, before the rain started to change gear slowly at first and then faster and heavier until it sounded like a barrage of gunfire as thick droplets of rain exploded onto the concrete streets.
Kramer sat unmoved by the thunderous downpour and emptied the last of the coffee that had cost him the better part of two Francs. The wailing of a poorly tuned violin broke his peace as he looked up to see an unwelcome busker attempting to squeeze out music from his battered instrument. The musician with his pale and flaccid face gave out a condescending expression as he attempted to charm the small unappreciative audience into donating any spare change.
“No.” Was all that Kramer gave the violinist as he finished the song and held out a cap in his direction containing the fruits of his labour. His narrow blue eyes stared violently towards the busker until the musician shrugged his shoulders and scurried over to another table to try his luck elsewhere.
“Come on man, three brandies can’t you see were dry over here?” A loud nasal voice broke the stillness. Kramer lowered his paper to scan the cafes newest arrivals and took a sharp intake of breath as the sight of three burly rain soaked US soldiers was the last thing he needed. The smallest of the trio headed to the bar whilst the other two made for the a table closest to the fireplace and within touching distance of Kramer. He felt his face flush red but he had to remain cool, his eyes lingered on the men long enough to show curiosity but not fear and slowly broke there gaze and went back to his paper.
“What are you looking at?” The largest of the three called out to him his voice filled with drunken violence. Kramer said nothing but returned his gaze to the paper in front of him hoping to quell the situation.
“I’m talking to you, you got a problem?” The voice screamed out again. Kramer felt his heart race, felt the veins in his temple throb it had been years since someone had the audacity to belittle him like this. He kept silent and still one hand on the paper the other clenched ready for work. Although he knew this to be futile as one fist against three side arms was no match.
“Oi can you hear me.” The voice continued the anger more apparent. It was nearly time for it to begin Kramer realised, no more hiding.
“Leave him be John and get this down you.” The third soldier softly spoke brandishing a tray full of spirits. Kramer waited, breathed hard knowing that there might be more to come, he could still feel the young soldiers hateful gaze upon him. Five then ten minutes past and nothing the soldiers attention was back on the drink and his friends Kramer now a drunken memory. The German let out a calming breath and steadied himself thankful that the moment had past.