Amalie

The year was 1942. It was a very dark time for most of France. After a brief struggle, France had signed an armistice with Nazi Germany. Milfleur had just entered a prestigious Parisian university when the occupation officially began. She would never forget the awful fear she felt when the German tanks -- the Panzers -- came thunderously rolling down the streets of Paris. Now there were nightly curfews, rations that really weren't enough, ceaseless propaganda in the university, and worse, France had traded freedom for a dictatorship. There was a general atmosphere of darkness. It pervaded the streets, and was now deeply buried in everyone's hearts. Times were hard. She couldn't even think "Times are hard, but we get by", because many people did not 'get by'.
      Everyone hated it, as far as Milfleur knew, but most everyone had the attitude of, "Well, this is terrible, but I don't want to be killed so I'll be quiet." Milfleur, however, lacked whatever it was that let them completely cooperate. She wanted the old France back, and so she worked sometimes delivering pamphlets for the French Résistance. She would make her way throughout the dark streets of Paris, slipping pamphlets under people's doors. Her life was at risk, but it was the only satisfaction Milfleur could get in the new dictatorship. Sometimes she regretted leaving her more isolated French town to come to the big city to study. She wondered how her family got by. When she had first came to Paris, she was incredibly happy to have a scholarship.
    One fine morning in May, she and another student by the name of Amalie Dupont were walking to their college. Amalie was a petite young woman, barely 5'3'', with an earnest manner about her that was quite charming to some. Her eyes were large and brown like bonbons. Nowadays they had a sort of worry in them that was beyond her years, a worry likely gained from how often she would sit there unable to sleep while Milfleur was out delivering the pamphlets. She wore her thick black hair in a short bob, and her lips were usually red, as red as poppies -- she was rarely caught without her favorite lipstick on. And with her skin very white against her dark hair and red lips, Milfleur had once told her she resembled Blanche-Neige.
    It was really a lovely day. The avenues of Paris were all green and large clumps of pink blossoms hung from the trees' branches. Amalie was talking. She was an extroverted young lady, always talking about things, like her biology courses. That's what she was studying to be -- a medical microbiologist. No one could deny that Amalie Dupont was bright. However, she came from an aristocratic Jewish family, and the occupying regime made her wear that yellow star. This only made Milfleur work harder with the pamphlets.
    "...Milfleur ma cherie, are you listening?"
    "Yes, yes...look, we're here."
    The two students entered the university and parted. Milfleur had at first been so very excited about studying to be a journalist. But now? It had started with the elementary schools and progressively worked its way up. She thought of the little schoolchildren, who were made to sing 'Maréchal, nous voilà' together. Now it was the university's turn. Most of her classes were poisoned by propaganda in favor of the occupying forces...the courses for that day passed quickly, and soon it was evening.
    Milfleur and Amalie were sitting in their small sitting room. Mifleur was away from her family, who lived in the French countryside, and Amalie was from Bordeaux. And as each found herself alone in the large city of Paris, they had worked it out to be living together. It was a rather cluttered house in a poor neighborhood, but it was enough. They were very poor, for a working woman didn't earn as much as a working man. The result of this was that Milfleur and Amalie had very little furniture. It so worked out that Milfleur slept on the floor, wrapped in quilts, while Amalie had the bed, which wasn't much softer than the floor. Milfleur had insisted that Amalie had the bed, saying that she wanted Amalie's shadow to be higher than hers.
    The apartment was lit by a dim lamp, with stacks of unorganized books and clothes lying about. There were two wicker chairs and a small table in the sitting room. Milfleur went about making coffee. Well, it wasn't quite coffee. Rather, it was made with toasted barley mixed with chicory. It had not the taste of a nice cup of coffee, but...
    Amalie seemed pensive. "Are you still delivering pamphlets?"
    "Yes."
    "You know that's going to get you in trouble if they find out. I worry about you quite a bit. Just last week they imprisoned some Communists who were part of the Résistance..."
    "But they were doing more dangerous work. Guerrilla warfare. I'm just working delivering pamphlets." Milfleur gave Amalie her coffee and sat down. "Please don't worry about me, Amalie. And anyway, I'm more worried about you. They won't even let both of us in some restaurants now."
    "..."
    "This is ridiculous! Why did we just quit fighting when things got tough? France should have died fighting rather than just give in...," exclaimed Milfleur.
    Amalie reached over and held Milfleur's hand. They sat there, each lost in her own thoughts. Eventually, Amalie spoke.
    "If you really wanted to, it's not like train tickets on the black market are so very expensive...well, that's actually a lie, they are...but..." Amalie said, trailing off.
    Milfleur slowly looked up. She had apparently been lost in her thoughts. A slow smile spread across her tired face. "We could catch the train to the free zone."
    "Yes!"
    And then the undeniably eccentric Milfleur had Amalie waltzing with her, waltzing around the sitting room. "Yes! How did I not think of this before?" Milfleur twirled Amalie around and let go, and then she was rummaging around in her purse, counting her money.
    "It'll take us a couple months at the most to save up, but we'll be in Vichny by the end of July!"
    And so that was their plan. Amalie began working as a waitress in a dingy restaurant, earning a decent amount, and Milfleur would often count how much they had saved so far, almost childish in her excitement. Amalie would smile fondly at Milfleur, but then think of the imminent danger that always hung like a sword of Damocles over not only Milfleur's head, but hers as well.
    It was indeed about another two months until they had the outrageous amount of money they needed to catch a train to the free zone.
    Milfleur left her classes that evening. She had promised to meet Amalie at the train station. Amalie had been at a friend's house, a certain Lorraine de Petit, the night before. Mifleur felt a sort of worry for Amalie, however. The occupying Nazis had began to arrest Jewish people in great quantities as of late. Milfleur was more afraid of losing Amalie than anything else she could imagine. But soon, all their fears would be eased, in Vichny...
    It was the eighteenth of July, 1942. Milfleur had with her only one suitcase and had curled her red hair. She eagerly sat at the train station, watching the clock. Only an hour until the train was there. Amalie will be here any minute now, she thought. Probably couldn't find that lipstick she loved so much.
    The minutes ticked by. Milfleur began pondering what life would be like in Vichny. It was crushing to have to quit her classes, but it was just too dangerous now. How she missed having roasted black coffee in the morning! And how was her family, and Amalie's, she wondered.
    Aha! What what was that? In the steam of the train station, a petite figure holding a suitcase was barely distinguishable! Milfleur's heart flooded with relief and she sat up. But no, it was a cold-looking middle-aged woman, who passed by without glancing her way. She settled back down, her former worry coming back.
    It was nearing eight 'o' clock. An old couple sat next to Milfleur and they began to talk. Milfleur half-listened as she watched the clock.
    "It's terrible, just terrible. They're rounding up the Jews, Narcisse. Started four 'o' clock this morning. I saw our neighbors being arrested when I left for work..."
    What?
    The train came up. Milfleur sat there, clutching her suitcase helplessly. She wouldn't leave without Amalie. Where was Amalie? And then ten minutes had gone by, fifteen. The train was leaving. Where was Amalie?
    She looked indescribably pathetic, sitting there staring straight ahead, with her hands folded in her lap. Amalie, Amalie. Any second now Amalie will come running to the platform, thought Milfleur. Yes, she'll come up and be sad that we missed the train, and even now she's hurrying to get here. But as the train rolled away, Milfleur knew with a clarity terrible in its simplicity.
    Amalie was not coming back.