On The Streets Of Paris

You know what to do. You’ve done it a million times before but you still can’t shake that sinking feeling. It’s just like any other time, you remind yourself, but it doesn’t make you feel better. So you try a different strategy instead. I am Zora Itovschy, Paris’s number one assassin, I got this. You pull your gloves higher up your arm and fasten on your black cloak. It sways and billows behind you as you walk, making you feel even more dangerous than you are.

I got this.

Leaving the shadows of the old alleyway, you stalk the dark streets of Paris. It’s late at night, and not many dare to leave their house at this time. War has everyone on the edge of their seats, especially the second war in the last thirty years.

A few stray cars bump down the road. You stick to the shadows, determined not to be seen. This is a very important mission and you cannot fail. You run a hand down your leg and arms, feeling for the comfort of your hidden knives and a single gun. But guns are messy and loud and you prefer to do things quietly and quickly.

The second World War has changed quite a lot. More and more people come to her, wanting someone dead, usually a foreign general or important person. You have gotten a lot of Hitler assassination requests, but you know you won’t survive that encounter. Once in a while, you get a concerned wife or family member who wants you to check in on their husbands, brothers, uncles, and so on. Your job has gotten more and more interesting but you don’t complain. Any money in a time like this is useful money.

The night smells of ash and sog and it is chilly. The lights from stores and houses sparkle dimly and the big moon above feels ominous. Nothing is going to go wrong, you remind yourself, but it does little to quench your goosebumps.

You hurry down the street, not wanting to be late. Taking a left, you press yourself against the nearby building. The Nazi imposed curfew has made your job harder. A lot harder. If you are caught skipping curfew, you will be hanged or killed on the spot. Soldiers marched the street in lines, straight-backed with guns slung over their shoulders. You are careful to not be noticed and dodge gracefully behind objects, trees, buildings, and in and out of alleyways.

Dodging into a particular alley on your left, you shimmy up pipes, jump on balconies, and climb until you are standing on the roof. It’s the same thing you do every night when you go the docks and you have yet to be caught, though you still have dread pooling in your stomach.

Staying low to the roof, you race across the roof, leaping from one to another. It’s not a big stunt, the buildings are hardly ten feet apart and practice makes progress. The Nazi soldiers marching below never look up. If they did, they wouldn’t be able to get you in time, even with their big guns. There are plenty of chimneys to hide behind, as well.

You continue leaping from roof to roof, the River Seine coming into view. So close. A bullet whizzed passed your ear, and you through yourself down on the roof. 

“Why did you shoot? There is nothing up there?” You hear a gruff man speak in German.

“I swear there was someone up there,” another replied.

“You are drunk, soldier. There is nothing up there,” the first man replies.

You silently sigh in relief and you lay there an extra five minutes after the soldiers pass to be careful, then you slowly lift off the roof and continue on your way. Leaping from roof to roof, you feel free, even though you are weighed down by the task you must do. The night is clear and you can make out stars twinkling above.

The River Seine comes closer and closer into view until you are at the end of the line of buildings and make your way down. Landing on the ground with a soft thud, you peek around the corner of the building. Three more Nazi soldiers are marching down the docks, inspecting boats. Most of them were Nazi boats, but the several civilian boats belonged to the richest of the rich. Dammit. Your eyes search back and forth, looking for The Red Wave on the docks and spot it. 

The Nazi soldiers are a ways away from it but are still going to inspect it. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Before you can think, you do something extremely careless. When you think they aren’t looking, you dash toward the boat, hurtling toward it as fast as you can.

You try to make no noise, but at the speed you are going, that is nearly impossible. The soldiers must hear your footfalls because they start to walk toward the boat. They are still at least seven-hundred feet away but that doesn’t give you much time. Several bullets whiz past you, pinging off of other ships. You race up the small gangway, and onto the ship.

The ship is small and you run toward the captain's quarters on your right. Swinging the door open, you hurl yourself on the floor and start tapping the floorboards. You can hear the soldiers stomping up the gangway and you quicken your pace. 

Finally, you find the right floorboard and you pull up several floorboards and slip into the space beneath them. There is a collection of gasps in the pitch black but you give a quick, short shh and snap your fingers twice, to say that you are a friend. 

The space is cramped, black, and slightly hot, but you don’t have time to care. The soldiers' footsteps are almost right above you as they enter the captain's quarters. 

“Are you sure that there was someone?” A gruff German voice speaks.

“Yes, I’m sure!” Another one snaps.

“Maybe they didn’t go into the captain's quarters. Or they went to another ship,” said a third.

One of them takes a couple of steps forward, right above you and the others. Please don’t creak, please don’t creak, please don’t creak, you pray to God silently. 

“Hey, look,” the third voice says and you suck in a sharp breath, pulling out your gun, preparing for battle. But the footsteps pass over the secret space and you are slightly confused.

“You better share,” says the second.

“Finders keepers,” says the third.

“You will share,” the first says sharply. Rum. They found the bottle of rum on the captain’s nightstand. Asses. They walk out of the captain’s quarters, happy with their find, and loudly stomp down the gangway, back onto the dock.

You wait thirty more minutes, before lighting a match from your pocket and setting the lamp beside you aflame. The small compartment illuminates slightly and eight people, three men, two women, and three children, come into view. Their clothes are dirty, and they look terrified, but you have more important things to worry about.

“It’s all right, they have left,” you say soothingly in Polish, not bothering to tell them they are safe because they already know they are anything but safe. “I’m going to take you to your next stop, where you will be picked up by a nice American fellow and taken to safety. Follow my every instruction and don’t say a word.”

The adults nodded their heads vigorously, but the children looked as if they would burst into tears. You pull out some bread and cheese from your pocket, as well as a canteen of water, and pass it to the refugees. Then you hand the three children a small bunny no bigger than the size of your pointer finger to each of them. 

“Time to go.”