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Nach Kriegsende
Colmar, France - January 1946
The specter of war still loomed heavy over the border. Its fierce hand had raked its fingers along the countryside, leaving the barely-healed scars of trenches cut deep into once open fields. One would be forgiven for confusing them, now covered in grass, for dried ponds or perhaps even small, gently rolling hills. Only the husks of burned-out tanks and remnants of concrete fortifications made it all too clear the devastation that had barreled through not even two years prior.
Christof clutched his suitcase close to his chest as the bus bounced along the torn and battered road, examining the wreckage of a German tank that had been entangled in a hedge row lining an intersection. Its right tread had been blown off and a hole as wide as Christof's fist lay square in the center of its hull.
Contemplating the tank's fate and story was almost enough to distract him from the dagger-like stares he could feel boring into him from the others on the bus. As it faded from view, he was forced to confront the stares. They had known him to be a German from the moment they laid eyes on him, not that he fathomed how. His was a common face - round, with well-kept dark brown hair, plain brown eyes, and an even complexion. A patch of bubbled scar tissue ran the length of his right hand, but there was little distinctly "German" about him. Christof supposed it was his accent, or perhaps the brand of his luggage that had tipped them off but regardless of its reasoning the secret was out.
Let them stare - they would likely keep on staring for some time yet, if they ever stopped. With the trace of a rueful grin, Christof wondered if they truly had nothing else to do besides cast their disapproving looks and whisper to their companions of the monster that shared their bus, breathed their air. It was true that the countryside was uneventful, the road bumpy and uncomfortable to tread.
Fresh wounds, he thought as they came upon another series of former trench lines. Perhaps I am the salt.
Another two hours passed as uneventfully as the first four had. The bus made stops at various villages, picking up and dropping off passengers as it went. With every new wave there were more fresh stares to muddle through, but again Christof paid them no mind. When at last the driver announced their approach to Colmar and the town came into sight, Christof gratefully rose to his feet and fetched his larger luggage from the overhead bin. He spied equal looks of annoyance and relief, and without a word stepped out the bus when it rolled to a stop.
The architecture of the town struck Christof as bizarrely Germanic and was the first thing he noted after reassuring himself that he still possessed all his belongings, though he supposed being so close to the Rhine it was inevitable. If he had been told he was back in Heidelberg and had taken the wrong bus he might have believed it. The streets were cobbled and mired in dirt and dust, eventually giving way to dirt roads outside of the immediate block of downtown. Christof watched for a moment as the bus disappeared down one of those dirt road and turned out of sight before fetching his luggage and heading further into town.
It was past midday, and the town was alive with people running out and about their business. He was thankful for the noise and the distraction - it kept his mind occupied, and left those around him with no time or interest in sussing out his heritage. Still, for all the activity there hung a sense of melancholy and loss that was missed at first glance but evident in the way the inhabitants walked about. It was more a shuffle than an open stride, and as Christof looked about the market stalls and stores he saw that their wares were pitifully limited.
And the people.
Their expressions spoke of a grim sternness, of suffering and hardship. Boys no older than 20 walked with the stiffness and caution of an old man, mothers walked beside small children holding them possessively close, and there was an obvious lack of fathers with their sons working the family businesses. Though the war had ended for the French sooner than most, Christof perhaps more than anyone besides those people he now strode beside knew the hardship they had endured under years of German occupation.
One I partook in, he reminded himself, for it felt as if it had been a lifetime ago and told to him by a stranger.
Christof saw a sign for an inn and made for it, entering the establishment with his luggage trailing awkwardly up the worn steps behind him. The woman at the counter stood, chin propped on her hands, elbows on the counter with a lit cigarette dangling from one hand. She was young, no older than 25, with mousy blonde hair left in loose curls and dressed in a white blouse that was tinged with an aged yellow at its edges. Atop the counter was a magazine Christof did not recognize, one she seemed very intent on reading to the exclusion of all else. Christof cleared his throat politely, putting on his best, if perhaps forced, smile.
"Good afternoon," he said in near pitch-perfect French. "Are there rooms available?"
The woman narrowed her eyes, sliding aside the magazine atop the counter and taking a drag from her cigarette.
"I don't remember Germans being so polite the last time they holed up in my home," she said coldly. "What're you doing this side of the border? They find someone other than old men and little boys to keep the fight on?"
"I have money," Christof said politely, ignoring her backhanded remarks. "French money, I'm just looking to find some work here so I can afford a ticket to Paris or maybe even Barcelona."
"It's three francs a night," she said. "If you're looking for work, I'd come back when you're a French citizen and not some war profiteer."
"Tell that to the Allies backing all the infrastructure spending and the Turks coming for the work the soldiers left vacant," Christof remarked dryly, sliding the money across the counter. "Three nights paid in full right there."
The woman took the money, counting it with a skeptical look cast at the German before her. She placed it in a cabinet behind the counter and nodded, fetching a key from a separate counter.
"Room's upstairs, room 9 - end of the hall. I'd practice your French if you want to keep playing your little forlorn soldier act," she spat.
"Noted," Christof replied, unamused. "By the way, my name is-"
"Go to your room, German," she interjected. "I don't think I fancy getting to know you."
Christof nodded, taking the key and venturing down a narrow hallway by the main dining room of the inn and up a flight of creaky stairs. Judging by the fresh patches of plaster and unstained beams of wood, the inn had been repaired recently. The second floor was lined in a rich red rug that ran the length of the hall, each side of which was lined in doors with numbers painted crudely on their fronts. Christof found the one labeled "9" and tried the key. Fortunately the door opened, and he ushered himself inside, planting his luggage by the door to the washroom.
Gratefully he sunk onto the bed, which creaked and groaned beneath his weight and sent a plume of dust into the air. He coughed, waving the dust aside as he sank deeper into the bed's hard, firm mattress. The room was small, barely over two meters across and three meters long. A row of cabinets and stowage lined the wall opposite the bed, and a radiator sat beneath a window lined in white linen curtains overlooking the street below. Though Christof was not tall by any stretch of the word, even he felt inclined to hunch as he stood reluctantly to peek out over the street.
Christof unpacked his luggage, stowing his meager clothes and possessions in the cabinets lining the walls before heading back downstairs. He had changed into a worn suit that had once been his father's and donned the last pair of dress shoes he owned. The suit was the same grey his uniform had been, and part of him yearned for it to be even a bright pink if only to avoid the association with the war.
"Back so soon - I like the new uniform," the woman behind the counter quipped as he approached.
"Are all French women in this town as strong-willed as you?" Christof questioned.
"They are now, or they died," she said flatly.
An awkward silence followed, one that indicated clearly to Christof he would receive not the remotest shred of hospitality from this woman.
"Where can I find work?" He asked at last, once the silence had reached its breaking point.
"The farmers come in about once a week or so, might be you can find work with them. Town's got vacancies. None of them want a German, though."
"I doubt they do, but I also doubt they have much of an option," Christof retorted. "The farmers. Where do they go?"
"Town square - most weekdays there'll be a couple. Look around the market, plenty of them need men to help with the fields."
The German nodded, stepping back and leaving the inn without a word, headed straight to the square. With any luck, three days in the inn with that innkeep would be all it took...