"I suppose a drink would be alright."

Graeber smiles. The smile on the German’s face is bright and youthful. If it weren’t for the gray camouflage over his body, she might have found the man before her attractive, but he had a stigma and had a hideous German accent whenever he spoke her father’s beautiful language. All the air in her lungs was left in one heavy exhale. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Graeber’s face changed slightly, and he looked around. His mouth opened, but he quickly shut it and looked around. Katarzyna’s eyes darted around too, but all she saw were regular people and the soldiers that Graeber was with before running to annoy her.

When she returned her gaze to Graeber, she saw that he was looking at her again. She swallowed down the blush wanting to burn her cheeks. “Where do you want to go drinking?” He asks.

“Petite Taverne,” she says. “It’s just a few blocks down. Come.”

She spins on her heel, her blue dress twirling as she does. Graeber watched, thinking she looked too good to have Polish blood in her genes. But, he followed her nonetheless, brushing aside all judgment beneath the rug.

Petite Taverne was a small pub that offered rooms for rent and live entertainment while serving a modest selection of drinks. Cognac, Cointreau, and other alcoholic beverages were lined nearly against the wall. Inside were German officers and French whores, already making them comfortable with the occupation ****. The barmaid maintaining the bar looked stressed but hid behind a tight smile and friendly glance at Graeber and Katarzyna’s entry. She looked at Graeber somewhat begrudgingly but knew better than to keep her expression harsh.

On the stage, music was being played. It sounded like American jazz, but with more frantically. The musicians, just like the girl behind the counter, looked stressed… worried even. Katarzyna sat first and Graeber followed.

“Stinger,” Katarzyna said. She glances at Graeber and gives him a loose smile. “2 Stingers.”

“Stinger,” Graeber inquired. “What’s that?”

Katarzyna’s brows are knitted suddenly. “Cognac with Creme de menthe.”

Graeber nodded. “Creme de menthe?”

“Mint liqueur.”

Just then, the barmaid returns and gives them their drinks. Stringers served in clear glasses. A warm amber liquid is presented along with ice. “Is this your favorite—“

Katarzyna takes the drink with a throw of her head. Then, somewhere in the background, the room cheers for a reason unknown to the two.

“Suite,” Katarzyna says, sliding her glass back. The barmaid looks annoyed but does as she was requested.

Graeber takes the drink and sips the glass. The taste of the cognac fills his mouth, but so does a freshness he was not expecting. He smacks his lips and tilts his head slightly to Katarzyna. “Prost!”

After the fourth glass, Katarzyna’s “personal” book opens, and she talks to Graeber more willingly, though with a slight slur. She hadn’t eaten anything since noon and was a small girl. But, on the other hand, Graeber was a healthy soldier with a stomach full of French bread, not to mention he was already attuned to drinks for adults.

Despite that, she was coherent enough for conversation. And, God damn it all, she was enjoying his company. A few genuine laughs escaped her mouth, and some friendly curiosity spilled into her thought process. The enemy shouldn’t be this warm or inviting— this handsome or enticing to chat to. She felt a pinch of disappointment in herself, but…

“Guten Abend,” a voice comes from nowhere but everywhere. Katarzyna didn't understand German, and refused to make herself known.

Graeber looked up, his smile wavering. “gleichfalls, mein Führer.“

“Sei nicht formell,” the voice says.

“Entschuldigung,” Graeber smiles and relaxes. “Wie geht es Ihnen?”

“Mir geht es gut,” the voice replies, but then groans. “Jetzt ein bisschen ****.”

Both the boys share a giggle. But Graeber chases. “Ich auch.”

“Wer ist dein Freund hier?” The newcomer says. Katarzyna finally turns and sees a man a few feet from her wearing a pitch black uniform with polished boots. Perched on his head were a deep black captain’s hat and a reflective visor. There are pins and medals on the man’s chest. A swastika is embellished on his cap and the bright red armband he’s wearing, contrasting against the back fabric of his outfit. On his collars were two lightning bolts on one side and then a cracked skull on the other.

His eyes are cold and blue. They pierce into hers before shooting a glance at Graeber. “Wie heißt sie?”

Katarzyna quickly realized she was the topic of the conversation now. “What’s he saying?”

Graeber clears his throat. “He’s wondering your name.”

“I’m Isabella,” she says. “Isabelle Garnier.”

“Ah,” the man says. “Friedrich Zimmermann.”

“Und ich bin Graeber,” Graeber says, confused by the announcement of Isabelle Garnier’s entry.

Katarzyna lets the two Germans talk, ordering more drinks to keep herself distracted while silently hoping the idiot in gray beside her doesn’t spill her real name out, even by accident.