Tea Set and Newspaper Placed on Round Table (2020)
“How long will it take, Schmidt?” I asked my junior officer.
He glanced at me. “We are almost here, Oberführer.”
BY SAMREEN AHSAN
IMAGE BY EKRULILA
I looked outside the window of my car. The city was waking up around me as low clouds swept through the narrow alleys, capturing the first light in a golden halo. Being posted in Buchenwald for a year, even Paris’s stale atmosphere was a breath of fresh air. I realized I had walked on Rue de Lutèce many years earlier when I had visited it with my mother at ten years old. The bookshop, which was once crowded, was now close to ruin. Besides the Nazi officers and some inconspicuous people strolling on the street, it was deserted.
War changes everything.
I stepped out of the car as Schmidt opened the door for me. The first thing that caught my attention was a pair of towers on the west façade of Notre Dame at the end of the street. Time and war had not withered the beauty of the gothic cathedral.
“Shall we go in, Oberführer?”
I looked up at the white stone building in front of me. That’s where I was supposed to stay—as an uninvited guest.
“Who owns this?”
“A lady,” he replied as he cleared his throat. “The previous SS Officer Kunz said she was very cooperative.” I knew what cooperative meant for women in Paris. “The father was a doctor and was caught by Gestapo,” he continued. I looked at him with mild curiosity. “Resistance.” He shrugged.
Without further explanation, Schmidt carried my suitcase to the main door of the building. The apartment was on the first floor. I wasn’t surprised he already had keys; still, I found it a tad brazen to walk unannounced into a woman’s private abode.
As soon as Schmidt unlocked the flat’s dark wooden door, a celestial sound wafted through the shadows like perfume. I could make out the traces of its soft tones carving out the notes from my beautiful childhood memory of how Mutti used to play Moonlight Sonata.
Schmidt waited for me to move while we stood in the parlour. I didn’t know what I was expecting but it was certainly not music. It was as if the music had struck me mute, and I had no choice but to listen to what was playing. Perhaps, the previous SS officer had left his gramophone.
As if reading my mind, Schmidt leaned over to me and whispered, “The woman is a pianist.”
I blinked at him in surprise.
“Officer Kunz thought you might also enjoy, so we allowed her to keep the piano.”
Keep the piano? The way she was playing made it clear it belonged to her – as if the keys were dancing on her rhythm. It was not surprising that they made an exception.
Schmidt took a step forward to announce our arrival, but I held him by the arm. I took a step forward and gently pushed open the second door. Leaning against the doorframe, I stood there staring at her back. She was wearing a pale blue dress, with dark blonde hair covering her to mid-back. I was sure she was pulled from a Vermeer painting—how the light from the outside world landed on her beautiful shape, encircling her in a golden halo. Judging by the size of her slim waistline, she hadn’t eaten much in a long time. She wasn’t reading from any notes. Rather, she was playing from her mind. I hadn’t expected that a Parisian woman would be playing something from a German composer in the middle of the war. She was exceptionally, musically blessed.
When she hit the last note, I cleared my throat. She stilled for a moment, my presence causing her to freeze.
Schmidt entered the room, his heavy bootsteps announcing our presence. Slowly, she stood from her stool and turned around. Her eyes didn’t acknowledge us, but the way she stared at our boots, I could sense she knew who we were.
“Oberführer Karl Reder here,” announced Schmidt.
I stepped forward and offered my hand for a shake. What the hell was I doing? I never indulged myself in social niceties with the French.
Her eyes landed on my hand; still, she didn’t meet my gaze. She closed her eyes for a second, her delicate throat showing some movement as if trying to swallow something hard. I wasn’t going to bite her. Quivering, she opened her eyes and offered me her hand.
“Fräulein Joanne Ripert,” Schmidt continued, “she will be your host from now on, Oberführer.”
I looked into her eyes, as blue as a calm ocean, but no life in them. I had seen many prisoners in the camp, but none of them looked so devoid of life. She was like a breathing corpse, icy stare, pale skin and sunken eyes, with no emotion washing over her.
“Pleasure meeting you,” I said politely, leaving her hand.
“She does not understand German, Herr,” Schmidt commented. “This is your new officer from now on.” Raising his voice in French, Schmidt glared at the woman. “She is very complying, Herr,” he said, back in German. I glanced at the woman and noticed a flicker in her eyes. I had a feeling she understood German. Was she pretending?
“Fräulein Ripert, you will cooperate as you did with the previous officer if you want to live in this house,” Schmidt continued in his awful French.
“I’ll take it from here,” I said, looking at Schmidt. “You may leave.”
“You know what you have to do.” Schmidt spat out his displeasure as if it were a seed stuck in his teeth as he handed her a set of keys. “There should not be any complaint.” He looked back at me. “I shall be leaving, Herr.” He handed me another set of keys, which unlock the flat and the building’s entrance. He raised his arm forward and saluted. “Heil Hitler.” And in a blink, he was gone.
Deathly silence enveloped us as I struggled to start a conversation. If I had to live in this place for an indefinite period, it was better to start communicating. This was the time to use my French skills.
“Will you kindly show me your apartment?” I asked.
She still stood there like a Roman statue, but her eyes left my boots and travelled north. I was expecting her to meet my gaze, but instead her eyes halted at my rank. Her gaze moved slowly to my Gorget patch, my camo insignia, and to my hat, but she carefully avoided my eyes. For a moment, I shuddered at the stormy calmness, but I blinked again to realize the power of my uniform.
Gently, she gestured her hand forward to show me the rest of the apartment. I had a tour of two bedrooms, one for each of us, a kitchen, a bathroom, walking back through the parlour and again to the largest room in the apartment without exchanging a single word. The room served as an office, come music room, come sitting room, come everything, leading to a balcony. I stepped out onto the balcony and gazed out to Notre Dame at some distance. The location was perfect for a smoke and a drink, which reminded me I hadn’t eaten anything in quite a while.
Returning from the balcony, I started the conversation again. “If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything to eat?”
She clutched her fists tighter and turned around. There was a cupboard on the right side of the office desk. She walked to the cupboard and unlocked it with the set of keys Schmidt had handed her. To my surprise, it was a well-stocked pantry. From the collection of wine and whiskey to the tea, from biscuits and teacakes to dry fruits, I was surprised she was still like a reed stick. But a thought struck me: she had no access to the cupboard earlier.
Something tugged inside, a feeling as alien to me as hunger. She took out a packet of Heidesand—a German biscuit recipe made with flour and lots of sugar and butter. Setting the biscuits on the plate, she placed them on the table. Next, she took out a fine China teapot and padded out of the room. A moment later, I heard the clatter of pots from the kitchen. Assuming she must be preparing tea, I stepped to the other side of the desk and examined the bookcase behind the chair. There were books on medicine, lots and lots of them. I was told her father was a doctor. I wondered if he was sent to any camp, or did they dispose of him?
She returned with a teapot in a tray. Without looking in my direction, she took out a sugar pot, teacup, and saucer and set them on the tray. She added loose tea to the teapot while I took my seat.
“Thank you,” I said, trying to start the conversation again. Noticing her silence, I wondered what part of being cooperative Schmidt was talking about. “Please take a seat.” I gestured towards the chair opposite me. She blinked a couple of times, shock covering her face. Why was she surprised?
She obliged and took her seat. Her gaze dropped on the biscuits and she closed her eyes instantly. I watched her for a while, wondering if she had tasted those biscuits or not. I knew Officer Kunz’s reputation, and considering it, he wasn’t the of kind man who’d offer biscuit or tea to anyone. Something tugged again inside me—the same uninvited and alien feeling from before.
She kept her eyes closed, like a sleeping marble statue, hands on her lap but radiating bitterness. If she hated us so much, how was she able to comply?
I stood up from the chair and fetched another teacup and saucer. When I placed it in front of her, she opened her eyes. I took my seat again, expecting she’d look at me, but her eyes settled on an empty teacup.
I let the tea brew and decided to start the conversation again. “I noticed some books on medicine.” She blinked at my words. “Are you a doctor?” I knew she wasn’t, but I wanted her to look at me. Why? I didn’t know. She knew I was there, but she made me feel like I didn’t exist, despite being in the same room. I had not felt such isolation before.
“Fräulein Ripert?” From the lack of life in her eyes, I was sure her mind had drifted somewhere else. “Joanne?” I used her first name. She blinked again, and there… she finally met my eyes.
For a moment, I was taken aback at the way she held my stare. As if she looked right through me. I realized it wasn’t a wise idea to meet her eyes. This time, it was I who averted my gaze. “The books…” I didn’t know where to look. The books were behind me, so I took refuge in the biscuits. I picked up one sugar delight and leaned back, riveted by the sweet taste. “Are these your books?”
“Father,” she whispered. This was the first time I had heard her voice, but the way she said it held the pain of an entire universe.
“He is a doctor?” Dammit! I was a high-ranking SS officer, but I was behaving like a nervous wreck in front of a woman.
As if she was lost somewhere again, her stare was fixed on me. If looks could kill, I would have been frozen by the icy stare.
She nodded quietly. I decided not to behave like an adolescent who had seen a beautiful woman for the first time. She was indeed pretty — dark blonde hair and eyes that Führer’s Aryan dictionary would approve of—but wrapped in an aura of malignant bitterness. And of course, very obvious, the lack of food. Realizing the tea would not stay warm, I dragged my chair forward and reached out for the teapot. Without seeking her permission, I poured freshly brewed tea into her teacup. She finally broke her stare and examined her teacup like a newly discovered rock from the bowels of the earth.
Sugar was scarce in Paris, but Officer Kunz had managed to purchase or perhaps confiscate some from the black market. I should ask him how he had maintained his supplies in this city. The bakeries and cafes had been shut down for quite some time due to the flour and sugar shortages. Those who could afford to purchase from the black market were the lucky ones.
I removed the lid from the pot and picked up the block of white sugar.
“Sugar?” I asked.
She blinked again and looked at me. Without waiting for her response, I dropped the cube in her tea and slid the teacup forward in her direction. Pouring my tea, I picked up another biscuit and took a bite. It was delicious.
“You played really well,” I changed the topic. “Are you a professional pianist?”
She blinked again, acknowledging me for the first time by clearing her throat. “I used to play.” That was the second sentence out of her mouth. We were finally progressing.
“You mean before the…?” Somehow, I didn’t want to bring war between us. She nodded at my inquiry.
“I used to teach children,” she said, her voice dropping a few decibels.
“What do you do now?” I bit my tongue from inside. Dammit! It wasn’t the right question to ask. What should I expect from her besides cooperating with Nazi officers? She blinked again. Something about that tiny sign of life in her otherwise sepulchral appearance made my heart race.
“Is Beethoven your favourite?” I changed the subject again. I had no idea talking to a marble statue was so hard. She nodded again, still wrapped in a cocoon of silent resentment. “Your tea is getting cold.” I gestured towards her teacup. Perhaps, Beethoven was not a good idea.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. So, the statue can breathe!
“Some biscuits then?” My words pulled her out of her reverie as she opened her eyes to grace me with her gaze. “Have you tried them?”
Finally, after a few heartbeats, she picked up a biscuit. Her hand was trembling like she was seeking out the forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden. Slowly, she bit the biscuit and closed her eyes again. I thought she had gone back to her world for a moment, but I quickly realized she was giving the sugar delight time to melt in her mouth. Gradually, her mouth moved in slow movements.
When she opened her eyes, she locked me with her intense stare. As she chewed, the bitterness around her evaporated, and the ice around her melted. Her mouth twitched in a small smile, thawing everything around me, slowly warming up like an Amazonian jungle.
I never realized that such an insignificant thing could mean so much to someone. I had always taken it for granted. That my offering of such an inconsequential item could change her entire existence, that it could fill her with light.
Perhaps, she was only missing one thing in her life: sugar.
Samreen Ahsan is an international award-winning author. She is a traveller and loves visiting historic cities and their architecture. Her obsession with castles and palaces is quite evident from her travelogue. She also writes actively on Wattpad. She loves reading Historical Fiction, especially WWII stories.
Image: Ekrulila for Pexels.com, Tea Set and Newspaper Placed on Round Table, digital photo, 2020.
Edited for publication by Barb Smith, as part of the Professional Writing and Communications Program.
The HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by the Applied Research & Innovation.