She is tall with long chestnut curls cascading down her back, honey-tone flawless skin, long thick black eyelashes that veil large hazel-brown eyes filled with sadness, her perfect lipstick-red lips forming a miserable smile. She looks every bit the fashionable young Parisian woman of the past, with her obviously expensive silk dress, quality stockings and some what weather-beaten but still shiny strapped shoes. She has a beret on her head and in her arms is a structured expensive looking leather bag. Her companion is equally breathtaking. His dark hair is cut short. He has large beautiful blue eyes that are not near inferior in size to hers and, somewhat surprisingly long eyelashes so thick that a girl cannot achieve even with the help of mascara. He is wearing a dark expensive suit and a briefcase is casually propped against the leg of the chair on which he sits. There are two cups of “coffee”, which are almost frozen over, and a minuscule croissant that has only been bitten once, by the young woman, on their table. They appear too distressed to enjoy these, unheard of at the time, culinary riches. This beautiful couple is animated in talk of something upsetting. Both their expressions tell of incredible loss and sorrow, I am stricken by the thought that perhaps there is even more sadness in them than in all of miserable Paris put together, and I cannot quite catch why. I cannot seem to pinpoint their origin, for I am sure they are not purely French. The answer is so close, yet for some reason I am not able to get it… I catch myself staring and, aware of being rude, look away, but not before I see the dazzling woman’s cheek glisten with a tear.
I concentrate instead on two senior, presumably upper-class women sitting at the table directly adjacent to mine. They are discussing the favourite topic of formerly well-to-do Parisians - food shortages, which has only been increasing as the past six months have trudged on. They do not catch my eye like the beautiful young couple, because of their dull, unemotional and unexciting and routine conversation and obviously inferior looks; skin sagging with age, greying hair, unkempt figures, ugly, gnarled and knobbled feet, deep-set wrinkles around their eyes, and frown lines as deep as canyons. Unlike my interest in the couple’s conversation, and the mystery aura surrounding them, the old women’s “chit-chat” annoys me and just distracts me from my thoughts. After they finish their coffee, they depart, leaving me thankfully to inspect the rest of the depleted clientele.
In a darker corner of the café, sits a young man of about twenty-two. He is dressed warmly in a coat, scarf, hat and leather gloves. His glasses balance precariously on the end of his nose as he stoops over the pages of a university textbook. His hair is messy and untrimmed and hangs around his eyes, evidently obscuring his view of the text, for every once in while he tucks the disorderly strands behind his ears. He has the dishevelled appearance of an intellectual, with a half a dozen other textbooks and loose pieces of paper are scattered around his table, and he is frantically writing something on one of the crumpled papers, his pen making a loud scratching noise that can be heard all around the empty café in the absence of lively conversation. His brow is furrowed in concentration and his eyes frantically move from side to side as he reads the text.
Jean-Claude is the lone waiter in the café, partly due to scarcity of customers, partly to financial deficiencies, he has had to let all his staff go and now he labours by himself as cook, waiter, owner and accountant. You can see the failures of his business on his face. The once young and enthusiastic facial expression has been replaced by wrinkles and a permanent frown that is only very rarely replaced by a weary half-smile reserved only for his permanent customers. At this moment he is in battle with the seemingly permanent layer of dust that covers the café like a blanket. After repeated unsuccessful attempts, he abandons the idea and sits behind the counter, the burden of his sinking business weighing down on his shoulders.
The bell on the heavy door rings and my initially neutral mood grows sour as I take in the black uniform and red swastika armband of the SS officer standing in the doorway. He is tall and well built with a handsome face, and in contrast to the man with the briefcase; he is fair, with light skin and blond hair. He represents the perfect Aryan man, and that is what makes me resent him all the more. He casually strolls in and takes a seat in the centre of the room. He orders a “proper” coffee and a croissant and I feel my mind freeze over with jealousy at his gourmet privileges, my stomach grumbles in agreement. As I look over to see the reaction of my fellow café goers and am satisfied to find the young intellectuals face ridden with disgust at the man who represents all that is wrong with Paris at this moment in time. When I look for the couple’s reaction instead of the expected disdain, I see a flash of wild fear cross their faces that is gone as soon as it came. However they never quite recover their composure. The officer leaves as suddenly as he came and the coupe seem visibly more relaxed. The young man barely looks up from his books and I decide I have imposed on their mornings enough.
The weather outside matches the mood of the sombre café and rain is pouring down on the Paris streets making large puddles form on the pavements. I pay for my sorry excuse for a coffee, leaving tips of course, and step out onto the wet and muddy street. I survey it for a moment, take in the German propaganda posters, the soaking wet people walking past with their umbrellas in hand, the children jumping over puddles and ducking for cover and the occasional Nazi. Then I open my umbrella and disappear into the crowd of pedestrians, leaving the café, Jean-Claude, the young man and the beautiful couple behind in the glass window.
