Graeber breaks from the group

“Change of plans,” Graeber says. “You decide on your own. I need to talk to that girl.”

Gerhard barked. “Already going after a girl, ja? Straßenjunge!”

A girl. A French girl. Of course, Graeber would be enticed to chase one. His friends roared with laughter. The constant joke in the unit was that Graeber hadn’t felt the touch of a woman, and he was so willing to volunteer all the time for risky tasks because he had nothing to worry about. No woman to moan his name and no kids to call him daddy.

Playful encouragement played from behind him as he ran, rapidly closing the distance between him and the girl from the raid. “In the city now, huh?”

The girl pretends not to hear him, but Graeber clears his throat. “Entschuldigung!” He reached and poked her shoulder, making ignoring him very difficult for the girl. Finally, she twisted her body away from his grip. “T'es une espèce de porc, ou quoi?!”

Graeber blushed, forgetting all French in one instant. “You didn’t get arrested, I see.”

The girl looked around, embarrassed to be seen conversing with a German. A German soldier nonetheless. “Please don’t touch me again.” She says, somewhat rushed.

Graeber stepped back and apologized. “I had to get your attention, that was all.”

The girl hugged herself. “What do you want from me?”

He had a million questions to ask her, but only one seemed reasonable to ask. “I, well, I never learned your name.”

“Why would I tell you my name?” The girl says, stepping away.

Graeber blinked. This wasn’t what he was expecting for some reason. When he considered her question, he wondered the same thing. The girl started to stray away, but Graeber traced her shadow. “My name is Samson,” he shouts in an attempt to get her attention.

She continues to walk, so Samson follows.

Eventually, Graeber, or Samson, loses his patience and calls out for the girl. She turns red-faced and crosses her arms. “Samson, please go away. Stop following me, or I’ll get the authorities.”

“I am the authority,” Samson says. “The Reich protects you!”

The girl side glances, now coming to the realization there’s no getting rid of her “admirer.” She lets out a defeated sigh. “Katarzyna.”

Samson Graeber squinted and repeated her name. “Katarzyna?”

She nods. “Happy now?”

“You’re Polish,” Samson says.

“Je Suis français!”

Samson advances, now finding the woman before him less attractive. “Non.”

“Je suis français!” Katarzyna says again. “Ma mère est polonaise.”

She regards Samson with a glare. “Aller se faire cuire un œuf!”

Samson shakes his head, finally translating everything. “Attendez s'il vous plaît!”

Still can’t get rid of him… Katarzyna thought.

“Sorry for… walking in on you that morning,” Graeber humbled himself. It seemed like the right thing to do for some reason. Polish or not, he had dignity and the duty to uphold some kind of male integrity for the Wehrmacht. “Let me buy you something to compensate for what I did.”

Katarzyna blushed. She had been trying to avoid this. The enemy couldn’t be this kind. The bastard that helped the invasion of her mother’s country and her own was offering her an apology!? Her mouth pursed, and her mind raced. Insults of all degrees swam to her brain, but none were voiced.