Konrad Feldpetzer

August 7th, 1943

Occupied Paris, France

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“So you just punched him?” I repeated incredulously.

“Yeah. Hit him so hard that he actually had to go to the doctor,” chuckled Malte, grinning at the memory, holding his rifle on the ground in a cane-like manner

“Moron deserved it, insulting the Fuhrer like that,” he nodded in approval at my statement. A small lull in the conversation reared its head, and we simply stood guard outside the café in silence.

Malte and I had been friends for a while now, ever since I got drafted and sent to Paris a month ago. We had plenty to bond over; we were roughly the same age, we came from the same area (I had never met him prior, though), and we were both interested in literature, though we hadn’t gotten the chance to read in a while.

“So…” I started again, racking my mind for topics, “You know the weather forecast? I’m not really in the mood to get rained on.”

I gestured up to the sky, which had been overcast for a few days now. It only rained once, and it was more of a sprinkle than anything.

“I heard from Armin that it should be cloudy for another few days; no rain,” Malte shrugged, squinting up at the sky.

Again, the conversation came to a halt. Instead, we opted to simply keep an eye out as we had been originally tasked.

I, personally, still couldn’t believe that I was in Paris. Before I was drafted, my family could barely afford to travel to Berlin, let alone travel to major cities in other countries.

I stared at the legions of people walking on the street with disguised awe, my eyes slightly widened underneath the visor of my M42 helmet. We were posted at the main door of the Pilier Blanc café, overlooking a rather busy four-lane street.

I had been a fan of learning languages back home, so I could speak decent French and at the very least understand English and knowing some rudimentary sentences. Those skills had been extremely useful since my being sent here.

After maybe ten minutes of comfortable silence between us, we heard the door open behind us and the distinctive voice of our new kommandant saying, “Gentlemen.”

We both saluted him, and while we did, I got a good view of his face. He had a neatly trimmed moustache on his upper lip, his rounded jaw seemingly devoid of any other sort of facial hair. His hair was a dirty blond, neatly trimmed underneath an SS cap.

He nodded, with us both letting our hands support our rifles again. His hands were neatly clasped behind his arms, and his torso was covered by a military, short-sleeved shirt.

“Are you the new guards that have been sent?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Affirmative, sir,” Malte confirmed. The kommandant’s eyes glanced at Malte, and then to me. A small smile formed on his face.

“What is your name, young man?” he asked me.

“Konrad Feldpetzer, sir.”

“Take off your helmet, Konrad,” the man ordered. I gave a slightly confused expression but did as asked anyways, taking off my helmet and letting my relatively long hair breath freely.

“As I suspected,” our kommandant sounded rather proud, and I had a feeling as to what he was referring to.

“You are a perfect Aryan specimen,” he grinned, grabbing my chin with a gloved hand and gently moving my head so he could get a better view, “Blond hair, piercing blue eyes, a symmetrical face. You shall be part of Germany’s greatest generation.”

After a few more seconds, he let my chin go and his hands were clasped behind his back again.

“Thank you very much, sir,” I nodded, strapping my helmet back onto my head. I had been praised many times before for my features, and, being honest, it felt good. I’d been defined by my failures for most of my life, so being defined by a success was a nice change of pace.

I did feel a tiny bit bad that Malte wasn’t getting any praise, though.

“So, do you two have anything to report?”

Before I could say anything, Malte replied, “No, sir. We’ve yet to see any activity from the French Resistance.”

“Good,” our kommandant nodded, “A truck full of soldiers is a few minutes away to help secure the area and make sure the conference isn’t disturbed. You are not to leave your posts until then. When it does come, you are free to enjoy the café. Just stay on-site.”

We both signaled our comprehension, me asking, “How will we be able to distinguish the truck full of soldiers, sir?”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” with that, the kommandant had retreated back into the café.

We simply glanced at each and shrugged, turning back to the street and getting back to casually chatting.

“So, when we win this war, what’ll you do?” Malte asked me.

I hummed for a second, giving it some thought, “Probably go back home and finish my studies. I’ll most likely start a family after that.”

Malte grinned, “Slow down there; you’re not even out of your teens yet.”

“Doesn’t really matter,” I shrugged, “The Fuhrer says that we need more pure Aryans and I’m a pure Aryan, so it’s my duty.”

“You have a point,” he conceded.

“You?” I turned the question back at him.

“Probably the same as you. But I’ll get back into the Wehrmacht afterwards most likely. Preferably behind a desk; I’m much more useful with a pen than with a rifle,” he chuckled.

“I’ll send a letter to my sister to pray for me if I have to go into battle with you then,” I snorted.

“Hey, cold comfort is what I’m best at,” came Malte’s reply with a smirk.

At that moment, a military truck hauling around fifteen soldiers pulled up on the road, veering into an empty spot on the sidewalk. The people walking on said sidewalk veered left to avoid it. The men all got off the back and two others from the cab. All of them wore standard infantry uniforms with the standard Kar98k rifle.

“I’m Janik,” a man with a close-cropped beard introduced himself, seeming a bit out of breath, “Do you have any orders by the kommandant after we arrive? We got some radio interference and couldn’t get a clear message.”

“We were told we could do whatever we want as long as we stay on-site once you all got here,” I shrugged.

“Alright then,” the man said, “You go do that. I’m going to quickly confer with kommandant Treich to see what positions we could best use guards.”

The man who seemed to be the leader, called two men over to replace us as we walked into the café. It was practically empty, apart from a bartender who was cleaning some glasses and a German soldier with a rifle probably making sure the bartender didn’t get into trouble.

The café itself was quite cozy. A bar circled around the corner opposite the door, and directly left of the entrance was a line of booths next to windows. A hand-carved, wooden shelf with wine bottles stood behind the bartender, along with a few other things.

I glanced at the soldier, gesturing towards the bartender, “Does he speak German?”

The infantryman turned my way, looking slightly confused, “I actually don’t know. I’ve only been here for a while, and he hasn’t said anything yet. He’s just been cleaning everything.”

“Guess we’ll have to find out,” shrugged Malte, walking over to the man, whistling to get his attention.

“Désolé, monsieur, je ne vous ai pas vu là-bas!” the man placed the cup down on the table and was apologizing, that we all understand by his tone alone.

“Do you speak German?” Malte asked.

The man simply gave Malte a confused look, as if he was trying to piece together what he was saying. Eventually, he just shook his head.

“Je suppose que tu ne parles pas allemand?” (I guess you don’t speak German?) I walk up to the bar, thankful that I had done my best to hone my linguistics skill.

“Désolé, monsieur, je ne le fais pas,” (Sorry, sir, I don’t.) the bartender replied.

I turn to Malte, “He can’t speak German.”

“Should have guessed,” he commented, shrugging.

“Souhaitez-vous deux commander?” (Do you two want to order?) the man asked.

“He’s asking if we want to order,” I flash Malte a grin, “What do you think?”

“I’m up for it,” he agreed, “Can you ask for a menu?”

I nod, turning to the man again, “Avez-vous des menus?” (Do you have any menus?)

“Bien sûr!” (Of course!) the man grinned, reaching under the bar and coming back up with two one-page menus. He handed them to us both. Oddly enough, there were also printed photos paired with the drink names.

After giving it a cursory glance, I immediately landed on the tea. Everything else was either alcoholic or foreign to me.

“Oh, what’s this?” I heard Malte ask. I turned to him, seeing him pointing at a cocktail and trying to (and badly failing) pronounce the name, “Soleil pêche.”

“Something to do with peaches. I think Sun,” I explained, “Peachy Sun.”

I quickly remember the fact that we’d have to pay, turning to the man, “Faut-il payer?” (Do we have to pay?)

The man replied, “Normalement, oui, mais comme nous avons été presque entièrement loués par votre gouvernement, ils sont gratuits.” (Normally, yes, but since we've been near completely rented out by your government, they're free.)

I blinked, the long string of French words daunting. I mentally picked it apart in my mind, separating the pieces. After two seconds, I managed to have enough of a cursory understanding to know they were free.

“I’ll take the Sunny Peach thing,” Malte grinned.

“You sure? It has alcohol, and I don’t think the kommandant will be happy with a drunk soldier downstairs,” I chuckle.

“I’ll only have one,” he pouted.

“Right,” I sarcastically agreed.

“Don’t believe me? Tell him that he can’t give me another alcoholic drink,” he crossed his arms defensively.

I turn to the soldier in the corner, “You want anything? They’re free.”

The infantryman gives me a soft smile, “No need, thanks. I already have all the water I need in my canteen.”

“Well, just ask me if you change your mind,” I tell him. After seeing him nod, I turn to the man and order.

“Mon ami ici aimerait une pêche ensoleillée et j'adorerais du thé.” (My friend here would like a Sunny Peach, and I'd love some tea.)

“Grands choix,” (Great choices.) the man smiles, opening an icebox to grab the ingredients.

“Oh, et ne lui donnez pas une autre boisson alcoolisée quoi qu'il dise,” (Oh, and don't give him another alcoholic drink no matter what he says.) I tell him, following Malte’s instructions.

“Compris,” (Understood.) the man nods, pulling out a peach and a cocktail glass.

“You want to go sit somewhere? Maybe get a window booth?” I offered Malte.

“Sure, why not?” he shrugs. We both leave the menus at the bar and walk to a small both meant for four at the end of the building.

The crowds on the street have thinned, most people at work now. Of course, there were several people still walking but it didn’t look like one mass of hats like it had before.

We both settled into the soft fabric seats, letting our rifles lean on the bottom of the seats, butts touching the floor and barrel facing upwards. I take off my helmet and place it on the table with a thud.

“Been a while since I’ve been in a proper eatery,” Malte whistled, looking around. I was about to agree when a flash of abrupt movement catches my eye across the street. A man wearing an armband that just appeared out of an alleyway.

I focus a tiny bit, and that’s when I see it.

The armband was of the French Rebellion.

The man notices me staring, goes wide-eyed, and then retreats into the alley.

Almost immediately, I launched from my seat, grabbing my rifle, “Saw something!” I shouted right before I burst out of the doors.

And got held back by the two soldiers at the front as they instinctively grab my arms.

“Let go!” I grunt, “There’s a French Rebel over there!” I gesture towards the alleyway.

“There is?” one asked.

“We’ll go with you,” the other one said, whistling at another group of soldiers to take their place.

After that four second interaction, the trio of us are tearing across the street like madmen, dodging cars any way we can. After the mad dash, we made it across and were now at the entry to the alleyway. It was practically pitch black.

“Anyone got a match?” I ask, grimacing at the darkness.

Wordlessly, one soldier pulled out a box, and then a match, scratching it against the bottom of his boot, lighting it.

It was surprisingly bright and lit up a sizable portion of the alley. It seemed thin, so I entered first, rifle bared.

I heard the one of the two soldiers cock their rifle too, the other holding the match.

“Where’d he scurry off to?” I mumble to myself.

“Right here!” a voice came from the back of the alleyway; perfect German with a slightly French accent.

And, abruptly, the man I had seen stepped into the match light with a shit-eating grin. I swung my rifle so that the sights aligned perfectly with his head. With an arm folded behind his back, he simply said, “Got you, Klugmann.”

I heard two gunshots behind me, and everything went black as the match was extinguished, somehow. Before I could even process what to do, I felt the buttstock of a rifle slammed into the back of my head.

In a daze, I felt myself fall to the floor. And that’s when everything went black.